


Leonine

by LittleRedCosette



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Violence, Brainwashing, Captivity, Character Death, F/M, Fear, Flashbacks, Friendship, Graphic Description, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loki's Scepter (Marvel), M/M, Memory Suppressing Machine | The Chair (Marvel), Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sort-of, Stockholm Syndrome, Threats of Violence, Torture, Wings, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-02 16:38:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 134,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedCosette/pseuds/LittleRedCosette
Summary: In 2012, SHIELD Agent Clint Barton goes missing following the defeat of the Chitauri and the invading God Loki.In 2013, Virginia “Pepper” Potts is rescued from a terrorist cell, freshly infected with a drug called Extremis.In 2014, SHIELD is brought to its knees by HYDRA, ripped out at the root by Captain America and the Black Widow.In 2015, the Avengers take back a HYDRA Fortress in the heart of Sokovia’s capital.These things are not unrelated.Or: The Winter Soldier isn’t the only familiar face in HYDRA’s arsenal.





	1. 2012 Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Friends,
> 
> This one definitely wasn't going away, it had to get written. It's very dark, in a different way to my other MCU stories so far. I'm not sure exactly how I'll navigate all of it, so I'm going to be adding tags (including relationships and characters) as I go. But the central ones are here from the start. It might venture into Winterhawk territory, although I don't yet know for sure.
> 
> **Please anyone feel free to correct my Russian or German if it is wrong! I won't be offended. My knowledge is limited, and I'm aware my research is not necessarily trustworthy.**
> 
> If you read it, thank you for taking the time.
> 
> LRCx

**(Part One – Listen)**

**2012**

**manhattan, new york**

**black widow**

_“Yeah, well, I deserve a therapy dog.”_

If Natasha Romanoff had been forced to guess what the last words Clint Barton ever said to her would be, she should have known it would be something to do with a dog.

It’s inconsequential chatter, in the end. He’s not even looking at her as he says it. She’s not looking at him.

He’s got a dusty, bleeding cocker spaniel in his hands, and is stroking the pup’s ears down in long, slow swipes of his open palms, teasing clusters of gravel from her fur with every brush.

Clint’s sitting on the sidewalk, or what’s left of it. The dog is curled up in the space between his half-crossed legs, his own injuries forgotten in light of the cut on the pepper-coated cocker spaniel’s head.

Natasha has long learned not to mention putting animals out of their misery around Clint.

Besides, the cut’s not that deep. The dog will probably be fine.

Clint, on the other hand, is a significantly less safe bet right now. He had managed to make it exactly eleven steps outside the shawarma diner, where they’d been sitting for the past hour beforehand. He’d lasted just long enough for the others to go their separate ways – Thor first, with the intent of finding whatever cell is holding his darling brother; Rogers last, his all-American, God-bless-and-goodnight baby blues lingering curiously on the back of Clint’s head with concern.

Natasha had been spared the hassle of a distraction by Agent Hill, whose call over their comms Rogers had answered with a painfully earnest _Ma’am _that Natasha can only assume made Maria cringe visibly.

Eleven steps down the sidewalk, though, alone at last and Clint stops, swaying on the spot with enough momentum that Natasha moves closer, just in case. Before she can tell him not to, Clint folds himself half as gracefully as he usually would onto the ground, scooping up the whimpering spaniel at his feet.

When he kisses the dog’s paw and sniffs audibly into her snout, Natasha is forced to accept he’s probably not going to come as quietly as she’d hoped, and resolves to stand guard while he pets his new friend.

Not for too long, of course.

New York is crawling with response teams and Natasha’s attention is tugged and twirled in a thousand directions, keeping track of them all. The police force, SWAT teams, firefighters, paramedics, even the national guard have seen fit to show up. Conflicting orders are being hurled back and forth, nobody quite seems to agree who is in charge right now.

And between them all, SHIELD blends right in, keeping the current moving.

The three closest familiar faces, Emilia Fowler, Jasper Sitwell and Dhara Kamil, make up a reliable enough triangle that Natasha pushes her direction further afield, to the perimeters of her vision. Clint, meanwhile, is telling the dog about an awesome landing he made three blocks over during the fight.

Later, Natasha will wonder if this was her first mistake, or her hundredth.

Clint is less than a foot away, and Natasha is watching a group of civilians who had been trapped in a blocked subway outlet get shepherded to safety by three competent, if impatient, police officers. The nerves of her spine prickle, instincts on red.

Her hand sinks into Clint’s damp hair, fingernails catching at his scalp.

“Stay here,” she tells him, knowing he’ll obey, possibly couldn’t get up by himself if he tried.

The purple smears under his eyes taunt her failure. He’s been awake for almost four days, sustained by magic and adrenaline and the undeniable ferocity of his own stubborn will.

Between the civilians exiting the subway in wobbly lines of awkward limbs, Natasha watches two figures dressed in tac gear slip down underground behind them.

Natasha checks her weapons. Two guns, mostly loaded, and a knife. Three bites left. Practically an arsenal in her hands.

For good measure, she slides two of Clint’s arrows out of the quiver still strapped to his back. He’s only recovered twelve, but ten left is plenty to keep him feeling safe. He probably won’t even notice any are gone.

(Later, when she is looking back, she won’t know what number mistake this is. Only that it was, unquestionably, a mistake.)

“Do you think I qualify for a therapy dog now?” Clint asks, idle hope nestled in his exhaustion, buried deep as his hands are in the dog’s fuzzy scruff.

“You don’t need a therapy dog,” she tells him, her eyes not leaving the subway entrance.

More accurately, perhaps, what Natasha means is: _Not any more than you did before._

Undoubtedly, Clint has been rewarding himself with covert contact therapy for years. Meeting new dogs remains his only reason for taking up jogging in Central Park half the time. It’s his only reason for jogging at all, actually.

Whether Clint catches her words or not is unclear. He’s got his hearing aids in, but one of them looks like it’s taken a dent, and they’re surrounded by plenty of other voices, overlapping in a cacophony that jars even Natasha’s raw nerves.

Then Clint mutters into the dog’s ears, so soft he only just catches it.

“Yeah, well, I deserve a therapy dog.”

Natasha doesn’t smile in response, though she might have done.

She’s already moving across the shattered tarmac between upturned cars.

Sitwell catches her eye and tracks her briefly before turning back to Kamil. Behind him, Fowler also spots Natasha, promptly glancing back at Clint and nodding.

Natasha has a natural aversion to actually liking other SHIELD agents.

It’s a messy business, befriending people who may easily die before retirement. All the same, Fowler is at the very least tolerable. Not to mention, she’s a little bit enamoured with Clint, has been ever since their op together in the DRC. She can be trusted to keep a spare watch on him while he’s down.

Natasha ducks around a blasted bus, slipping easily unnoticed between the two torn halves of metal and engine. The street is loud, almost overpowering the back and forth over the comms in her ears as she switches them back on. The frequency has been widened, though she doesn’t think any of the other erstwhile, so-called _Avengers _are still plugged in.

She moves silently between clean up traffic to the subway, where the last stragglers are leaving, grasping at the distracted cops, all three of whom are shouting to each other to be heard over the din.

In her ear, she hears Fowler’s voice, loose Californian vowels, and a reply from Marquez, who must be in the medevac jet two blocks over.

There are no working lights in the stairwell she enters, only the grey spill of sunshine that leaves much to be desired. The steps themselves are covered in a film of dust, and there are small blood marks, nothing worse than scraped hands and joints rubbed clumsy along the walls.

Natasha pauses, just outside the reach of the sunlight, only utter darkness ahead.

There are plenty of reasonable explanations for the presence of the two unmarked agents, their secrecy, their silence.

The problem is, none of these reasonable explanations appease her instincts; instincts that have successfully gotten her this far, have saved her life countless times. They are the instincts that told her not to listen to Yelena Belova the last time they spoke, that told her to trust the cocky archer who knew her real name the first time they met.

Something is wrong, she can feel it. Feels it in her spine, and in her grip on one of Clint’s arrows, her thumb placed readily at the catch-release that will cleave it in two, making for easier weapons of her own if she so wishes.

_This is taking what’s mine is yours to a new level, _he’d said when he first showed her, beaming that silverfish smile he always offers up too generously for its worth.

She takes another step into the shadows, breathing silently, steadily, eyes straining. Before she can reach the bottom, however, a voice pulls her back, stallion rearing force. Over the comms, Emilia Fowler’s voice, a sudden tremor, harsh like a siren.

_“Does anybody have eyes on Hawkeye?”_

Natasha’s halfway up the stairs again before the first negative response can come. Her hand is pressed into her ear, deliberate and strong, like she can force the words through with her fingers.

“Fowler, this is Widow. I am on route to your location.”

She can hear the thinness of her voice, knows Clint would hear it, too. She doubts the others will.

Her heart thumps violently in her throat. The _idiot. _Why did he have to move? What could possibly –

The sunshine hits her, weak as it is in the slow creep towards evening, dazzling her with the renewed hubbub of street sounds. City dust in her nose, choking her breaths as she runs back, stopping dead beside several chunks of building littering the street.

Eleven steps away from the entrance to the shawarma diner, Agent Fowler is standing, horror etched into her pale, barn owl face.

At her feet, an empty quiver, and beside it.

Beside it.

A doughy-faced, pepper-speckled cocker spaniel, sprawled lifeless on the ground.

There’s an arrow sticking out of her torn throat.

**варшава, Польша**

**солдат**

_(warsaw, poland)_

_(soldier)_

By the time the Soldier returns to the safehouse as instructed, exfil is already there.

He is certain he completed the mission in the designated time frame, which means they are early.

It’s Ayling’s team, five of them in total, armed to the teeth and looking disgruntled. The Soldier doesn’t know all their names, only Ayling. It doesn’t matter. Ayling is in charge; he needs only to report to the team commander.

The Soldier’s knowledge of HYDRA operative names is incongruous. He knows Ayling, and he knows Manera, and he knows Rumlow. If he ever learned the others’ names, they must not have mattered because he doesn’t remember them now.

The safehouse is on the third storey of a tall building in downtown Warsaw. The Soldier climbs silently up the fire escape that loops up the back of the building, carrying the briefcase that had been in the mark’s safe. He lets himself in through the tiny balcony door, mostly hidden by dead potted ferns, and looks blankly at the five guns pointing at his face.

Ayling is a twitchy agent. Not as confident as Rumlow, not as sharp as Manera. He gestures his men to stand down and they do so with visible reluctance.

There are no lights on inside, and barely enough room to fit the five hulking shadows crammed into the tiny studio. The Soldier waits, holding the briefcase, his handgun untouched in the holster under his jacket.

_“Mission status?”_ Ayling asks.

His Russian is halting, uncomfortable. He never loses the Boston from his vowels.

“Complete,” the Soldier replies in English.

The insubordination would earn him a slap from Manera, or a laugh from Rumlow. As expected, he gets nothing more or less than blushing indignation from Ayling.

_“Give it to me,” _Ayling spits in obstinate Russian, failing to notice he’s actually said, _Give it to I._

The Soldier does not correct him, and neither does to the agent on Ayling’s left, who smirks in a way that indicates he’s caught the blunder.

At Ayling’s outstretched, grabby hand, the Soldier complies, offering the briefcase and taking a small moment of pleasure in the visible struggle Ayling suffers to keep from dropping it. It’s heavy enough that even the Soldier had noticed its weight.

“Boothe, Secor. Bring the van.”

Thankfully, Ayling gives up on the Russian, returning to his native Boston. The two men at the back of the cluster turn and exit via the front door, leaving Ayling with his unhelpful Russian speaker and one other agent.

The Soldier stares impassively at the weaselly twist of Ayling’s face, and feels the dry blood on his arms crack over his skin. There hadn’t been time to do more than rinse his hands in the sink, pull on a pair of gloves and let them soak up the worst of it as he walked through the backstreets of Warsaw, avoiding the streetlights and cameras with ease.

Even in the mostly-dark, it’s clear Ayling’s face is turning blotchy with anger. His mouth wrangles around several unspoken sentences, and his knuckles turn white around both the briefcase and his gun, the latter of which he still hasn’t fully lowered, unlike his two men, who have holstered theirs complacently.

The Soldier thinks this is a poor effort on all three of their parts. If Ayling does give into his visible desire to shoot the Soldier, the odds are he won’t hit. If something goes wrong and the agents don’t draw fast enough, well. Nothing that attacks is going to be more lethal than the Soldier.

But it is not for the Soldier to have opinions, so he dismisses the judgement entirely.

By the way Ayling’s men shift loose looks at each other, the Soldier assumes this counts as an awkward silence. He is aware of them, can usually read them by the smirk on Rumlow’s face, or Halford’s habit of biting the insides of her cheeks, but he isn’t very good at recognising them himself.

They are a non-sequitur, where his missions are concerned, and his debriefs.

So he watches without interest the blood fill Ayling’s face in splotches, and waits for either the man’s head to explode, or the van to arrive.

Luckily for everyone, the van arrives first.

There is only the very faint roll of tyres on tarmac in the alleyway outside, before Ayling’s head turns slightly, a rookie tell that someone’s speaking in his ear.

_“Soldat,” _he says with obvious relish, indicating the door that the Soldier had entered through.

The agent on his left rolls his eyes, as if in misplaced sympathy for the Soldier, who turns and leaves first. He doesn’t make a sound on the metal stairs as he treads down it, and the quiet shuffle of three pairs of feet behind him seems to shatter the night’s calm in comparison.

The Soldier thinks about mentioning it, during his mission report when they get back to base. The last time a team screwed up his mission, they were immediately reassigned; all of them but the actual offender, whose skull had burst open in the Soldier’s grip like glass and clay.

Ayling’s team haven’t exactly ruined anything, of course, but they might yet.

The Soldier knows his worth. He is a weapon more prized than any other lesser labour.

The van has backed directly up to the lowest steps of the metal railing, doors flung wide, allowing them to duck directly inside.

The Soldier takes his places immediately left of the back doors. If there is a problem, he is the first and last line of defence.

The three agents follow suit, lining the inside of the van, a side apiece.

With his back to the slammed doors, the Soldier finds himself looking at a smirking agent’s face, the one who probably speaks passable Russian. His hands are on his knees. He bends one hand up, far enough to make a barely visible _OK _sign with his fingers.

The Soldier blinks in confused response, looks up at the man’s surprisingly gentle face, and dips his chin in an adequate version of a nod.

Seemingly satisfied, the agent returns his stare to the floor of the van. It smells strongly of oxidised metal in here. Ayling has stopped twitching but he’s wired in his seat, in danger of breaking something at the next sharp corner.

The Soldier, lacking further instructions, closes his eyes in some vague imitation of sleep.

It’s a long way back to HQ.

There’s a moment, during rotation, three hours and forty-two minutes into the journey.

Ayling must be in the front now, out of eavesdropping distance, because one of the men says: “Ritchie’s begging for a splenectomy via Soldier.”

“Ain’t he half,” another replies.

And the third, quieter than the others, hoarser.

“It’s like he hasn’t got a goddamn clue.”

The Soldier doesn’t know what that means but the others seem to, because they all hum in agreement.

The Soldier keeps his eyes closed, his backbone straight.

He waits for further instruction.

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

Six hours and eighteen minutes after leaving the safehouse in Warsaw, the van comes to a stop, followed quickly by the sound of the front doors opening and closing.

When the back doors are swung open, letting in a stream of cold, foggy grey light, it’s to reveal an unfamiliar courtyard.

The Soldier steps out, standing rigid. He takes in the old brown stone surrounding them, guarded by guns. None of the men are bearing the HYDRA insignia, nor are their faces at all familiar. Raw alarm scrapes at the Soldier’s palms and spine.

“This is not the mission,” he says.

He stares up at a wide turret full of tiny windows, blocking out the easterly sky, where the sun is barely rising. Every third one is armed.

Ayling smirks defiantly; he’s not got his gun out anymore, and has passed the briefcase to one of his men. One who isn’t too proud to carry it with both hands.

“You have a new mission, _Soldat,” _Ayling says, crossing his arms over his chest.

Behind him, the Soldier hears two guns getting pulled out of their holsters. Nervous or threatening, it’s impossible to know.

“You do not give me missions,” the Soldier says, because it is true.

None of the teams give out missions, they _carry _them out. Missions come from Pierce, and from Lewinski, and from Halford.

“Don’t get upset now, _Soldat,”_ Ayling taunts. His eyes are greedy, bright. He’s twitchy as a rabbit and _he does not give out missions._

“Take me to the base,” the Soldier says, though it is not up to him to command.

It is, however, up to him to report back to base after a mission. If he does not, he has failed. Failure is unacceptable. He will not fail, not because of Ayling, not because of anything.

“Now listen here, you mindless antique –”

Ayling gets no further.

He has tangled his arms over his torso in an attempt at superiority, and while it helps him to look smug, it is an incredibly poor defence. He has no chance of blocking the Soldier’s punch in time.

The gloves the Soldier hasn’t taken off yet do nothing whatsoever to soften the blow of his left, metal hand when the knuckles smash into Ayling’s throat. The man staggers back, his entire windpipe dislodged and his neck twisting ugly. He’s gargling his own spinal fluid before he hits the ground.

Instantly, the courtyard implodes with chaos, spreading as rapid as the destruction of a forest fire.

Ayling’s men are yelling, the two guns behind the Soldier are immediately cocked but they’re too close, too easy, he swipes them before they can get more than a single shot each out.

One agent lunges after his weapon, gets his neck snapped for his trouble. The other sensibly backs away, hands raised in meaningless surrender.

As the Soldier turns, one of the guards on the wall above starts shooting. The Soldier grabs the next agent who reaches for him, using his jerking body as a shield as he fires the first gun he’d snatched. Empties the magazine, eleven shots for eleven men, dropping like smacked wasps from the air.

The man in his arms is bloody deadweight and he lets the corpse drop at his feet as he raises the second gun, metal arm rapidly deflecting another string of bullets, but before he can shoot again, he is stopped.

Stopped by a voice, bellowing harsh as the wind over hard stone in clear, clean Russian. Loud, loud as bullets, twice as deadly.

_“Soldier, stand down! All units stand down!”_

It is instinct, as basic and inherent as firing the gun. The Soldier drops his weapon immediately, his knees smacking against the cobbled courtyard as, all about him, the firing stops.

Behind him, he hears several pairs of feet. One set of footsteps, he recognises as easily as any he has ever known. Clipped, to match her bullet bang voice.

The Soldier does not move, kneels exactly where he lands in the pooling blood.

The world is silent but for those feet, the wind, and Ayling’s dying breaths. Nothing but wet, gurgling sounds.

He keeps his face turned down to the red spilling into the cracks in the cobbles, so when she finally reaches him, her knees and shins come into view first, and her laced black shoes.

“Look at me,” she says in icy English.

The Soldier looks up at her green eyes, her dark hair. She’s bone white and furious, her lips curling as she takes in their surroundings, the littered dead bodies. Some guards must have dropped on the wall walkway but six of them fell straight down into the courtyard. Their bodies are mangled, broken gargoyles cracked upon the stone, oozing red.

Halford waits until she’s looking directly into the Soldier’s eyes, bull snort breaths clouding a little in the early cold, to speak.

“Explain yourself.”

“I completed the mission,” the Soldier replies instantly, does not avert his gaze even for a moment. She does not admire the cowardice of aversion. “I was not returned to Base. After a mission, I return to the Base.”

“Unless otherwise instructed,” Halford says.

The Soldier does not respond. This is true. Halford requires no validation.

For a moment longer she stares at him, nostrils flaring and eyebrows drawn tight. When she sighs, it’s strong enough that the Soldier feels it on his face, pushing back tendrils of hair hanging over his temples.

“Who’s the genius who decided not to brief the Soldier _before_ getting him in the van?”

This, she directs outwards. The Soldier does not look away from her face, though he assumes the remaining two agents point at Ayling, because Halford looks down at his slumped remains with an expression of disdain.

“You,” she says, clicking at somebody behind the Soldier. “Clean up this mess. Soldier, follow me. I’ll brief you inside.”

She walks away without waiting to see if he follows her.

Why would she? He has always followed her, and he always will.

Halford leads him through a heavily bolted wooden door, which leads to a dimly lit stone corridor. They pass three turn offs before taking a right, which quickly opens up to a wide, tall room. A gated set of bars cuts off a corner of the room, less than a quarter of it, like a prison cell. Left empty.

The rest of the room is full of equipment. Several work stations have been setup, familiar the way all labs are, universal in their clinical indifference to their observers. Most recognisably, he spots a large, heavily armoured chair, directly opposite the corner cell.

Halford stops in the centre of the room and points instead to a simple wooden chair. Without showing his surprise, the Soldier sits down. His limbs are loose, a deferent show of submission to appease her as she struggles to regain her cool.

Sometimes, the Soldier thinks it would do Halford a lot of good to kill a few people herself. She has enough rage. The Soldier has seen it, simmering carefully below the surface of her other, less easily interpreted emotions.

After a moment, she stands directly in front of him, close enough that his knees almost touch her legs. The last of her anger disappears behind her mask, like a magic trick.

“You’ve been relocated to this base,” she says, her voice flat as the stone floor under their feet. The Soldier does not ask where _this base _is. If he needs to know, he will be told. “Ayling should have told you in the first place. You’re going to help me with a – new project.”

Halford smiles indulgently then. It changes her whole face; she is an entirely different person.

“If it works, it will help you, too. Does that sound good?”

The Soldier nods, though in reality, it doesn’t sound _anything._

He’s only ever worked on missions before. He’s not sure what a _project _might entail, particularly one of Halford’s.

If anything, the Soldier is mostly sure he _is _a project, as far as Halford is concerned.

As if his thoughts were written in pen across his face, Halford’s smile widens significantly.

“I’m getting some new tools. They’ll need some work. Guarding them and working with them will be your next mission.”

This time, the Soldier’s nod feels more truthful. It is his mission objective: guard and fight. All other parameters will follow after.

Halford walks over to one of several workstations laid out in a deep L-shape. She picks up another familiar object, bringing it back to the Soldier without quite losing her smile.

It’s a thick, metal collar that she dangles off one of her index fingers. However, there’s something new attached to it, now. A thick, hood of black material.

“This is how you’re going to help me first, Soldier,” she says in her very best, most pragmatic tone.

Alone as they are in the high, empty room, her voice rings a little in the air. Pleasant, like bells in a churchyard. He’s not sure where he knows the sound from.

“I’m going to put this on you. If you can see anything when it’s fixed, you will raise your right hand. If you can hear anything, you will raise your left hand. You will sit in this chair and wear it until I take it off you. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” the Soldier replies, and does not ask what he should do when he runs out of oxygen, which seems likely.

Like the normal, hoodless version, the collar slides snugly over his face even when unlocked; the metal rim scrapes over his nose and chin as she pulls it down. His body instinctively takes a deeper breath when his mouth is covered, but he releases it fast when she slaps his chest in warning.

The black cloth sits not quite against his face. Before he can decide if that’s better or worse, the metal choker clamps shut around the base of his throat, where it weighs just enough to threaten his windpipe without blocking it.

Sealed in as he is, despite his unparalleled eyesight and hearing, the Soldier is, quite abruptly, cut off from the world. He’s never experienced such darkness, such silence. He can feel his pulse in his throat, rapid. He takes a breath and realises air must be getting in somehow, because there’s enough, even if it does taste musty through the fabric.

He keeps both hands on his knees, sits on the chair, and waits.

Six hours and fifty-four minutes later, Halford unbuckles the collar.

_1989/03/23 NEW YORK TIMES PAGE SIX_  
_DECORATED WW2 HERO FOUND DEAD INSIDE HOME  
_ _Retired Lieutenant-Colonel Curtis Cooper was found dead inside his home in Brooklyn on Saturday by his housekeeper, Alice Weiss. NYPD have stated that there were no signs of forced entry, but the death is being treated as a homicide. Further details are expected to be released in a statement later this week. This is the second high profile unexplained death of a ranking military officer in New York in the past week. NYPD have refused to state whether or not they believe the cases are linked._

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

This is what the Soldier knows:

He was built for purpose. He is a prize, one that Halford protects jealously. He can endure what men cannot.

He is feared the way storms are feared, cannot be prevented, only prepared for, and unlikely to be survived.

He was a broken thing, and now he is not.

Before Halford, there was a man. His face is misshapen in the Soldier’s mind, now. Burnt out of memory, but there is no forgetting a man like him. His voice has stayed with the Soldier, as little else ever has.

“You should be grateful, Mr President,” the man would murmur when he thought the Soldier could not hear, did not seem to know how well his voice carried over the blistering steel shriek of metal and wires.

The Soldier would never respond. Whatever joke the man smirked at, the Soldier was not privy to it, and why, why would he ever be grateful?

Guns are not grateful for bullets.

Halford never expects gratitude, only compliance and respect, both of which she has and not only from the Soldier. She is an unrelenting machine in HYDRA’s wide circuits.

“They’re late,” she says for the second time.

The man beside her nods. He’s in the middle of pulling apart a weapon that the Soldier does not recognise, his eyes averted. The Soldier watches him work, because he hasn’t been told not to, memorising each component as it is pulled apart for inspection. There’s a power source at the core, a faint pulse of energy emanating from it, the way clouds heavy with lightning swell and sink invisibly.

The Soldier is in the Chair, not the wooden one anymore. The blood has been hosed down and he’s dry again, stripped to the waist, the left arm deactivated to allow Halford to work.

She’s distracted by the tardiness of whoever it is she’s expecting, has only one eye on the unfurled metal palm as she replaces two damaged plates. They wear down easier in the cold, scraping together at the clench of the fist, never quite rusty, never quite smooth.

The man unclips what looks like it should be a chamber from a barrel, only, there’s nothing inside, no space to keep it. Whatever this weapon fires, it’s not bullets.

“Shall we radio again?” he asks, awful meek for how surely his hands move along the fine seams of the weapon at his disposal.

Halford shakes her head.

“I’m not in the mood for tired excuses. If they can’t handle one asset, then good luck to them deploying two.”

The man’s stare darts rapidly up to Halford’s face and across, to the join of the Soldier’s shoulder, curious.

“I thought Rumlow was leading?”

When he asks, he sounds almost nervous. They’re the only two people in the room; even muted, their voices bounce.

“He is,” Halford says, folding down the second plate of the joint in the metal palm. She scans the rest of the arm dismissively, and reactivates with at the panel with an absent-minded look. “He made an awfully big fuss about it.”

Halford likes Rumlow, this much the Soldier knows. Halford likes efficiency and efficacy. Thus, she likes Rumlow.

The Soldier might like Rumlow, if he likes anything at all, or anyone. Halford, too.

Before the man can reply, Halford gestures to the Soldier with a clenched fist and he copies, testing the limits of the new plates. The fingers curl in better, now, making the knuckles sharper. The Soldier looks to her face and sees approval.

On the table, the end of a large L shape beside them, the radio crackles to life.

A smile cuts across Halford’s mouth, an unyielding thing, like the Soldier’s left arm.

“Well, better late than never, I suppose.”

She snaps her gloves off and drops them on top of her tools, before picking up a handgun and presenting it to the Soldier. He takes it automatically, holstering it without thought.

“Follow,” Halford says.

The Soldier does, silently, and feels the man’s eyes follow him all the way out.

Halford strides with the kind of hungry anticipation the Soldier has come to expect from her. Whatever her _project _is, it’s quickening her step. She is excited, almost as easy to recognise as her anger.

The hallways of the fortress are dark, made entirely of stone. So far, the Soldier has seen only four corridors, three rooms and the courtyard where Ayling breathed his last. Wherever they are, there is not yet a discernible common tongue. In the last day alone, the Soldier has picked out English, Russian, Polish, Greek and Hungarian from the echoes in the walls.

The climate suggests they are in central Europe, matches the journey time by which they had driven from Warsaw. Perhaps Czechia.

Halford leads the way back to the courtyard where the Soldier first arrived nearly two days ago.

There’s a van, just like then, black, heavily armoured. It could pass well for any number of military models and standing outside of it, Agent Brock Rumlow is wearing gear marked for SHIELD, the way he sometimes does, looking mutinous. There’s blood congealing on his upper lip, bruises hanging around his eyes like purple discs.

Behind him, three of his men are in a similar state. One seems to be cradling a fractured arm, or worse.

Rumlow takes in the Soldier’s presence with interest, the way he always does, something akin to relief settling in his angles as he addresses Halford brusquely.

“We need help getting him out.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Tranquilise him. He’s one agent.”

“Doc, we’ve given him enough to kill a horse. He ain’t going down. The first dose barely knocked him out long enough to grab him at all. He’s killed four of my men on route.”

“And the weapon?”

One of the men behind Rumlow steps forward, carrying a long case. It’s similar to a rifle case, too bulky, with a baffling number of locks. Halford gestures him aside, casting the Soldier a calculating look.

“I thought he wasn’t enhanced?” Halford asks.

Rumlow pulls an expression of such absolute disgust, it distorts the bruises marring his heavyset face.

“He’s nothin’ special.”

There’s cut wire in that, barbs on his tongue. The Soldier’s unused to hearing emotions from Rumlow that aren’t amusement or anger. He thinks this might be one such rare time.

“Soldier,” Halford says without querying it, as if she can’t read Rumlow either, or perhaps can and simply doesn’t care. “Inside the van is a volatile, unenhanced asset. You will subdue and restrain him. You may use force, but he must not be injured. Do you understand?”

The Soldier nods once, a single quiet _“I understand” _before he’s moving to the van.

High up, there are twenty guns trained on his every movement even as Rumlow’s men take deliberate steps backwards.

The guards watch him from their walls, apprehensive and curious. It’s a look the Soldier is more than used to.

The Soldier can smell sweat and death even before he opens the heavy back doors of the vehicle. At least one of the four dead agents are inside with the asset. He can’t hear movement. When he opens the door, the asset will either freeze up, or he will charge.

The Soldier’s instincts coil, ready.

It turns out to be the latter.

He pulls the doors back, nearly wrenches them off their hinges, and the Soldier gets one square look at the asset – bruised face, dark blond hair, powerful shoulders, bare feet – before the man launches himself outwards, into the Soldier’s waiting fists.

It’s over very quickly.

The asset is scrappy, surprisingly strong, but he’s _tired. _Propelled by rage and fear, perfectly decent motivators but no match for the Soldier’s cool control. In a matter of seconds, the Soldier has him on the ground, one arm trapped useless underneath his bulky torso, the other wrenched just to the point of dislocation behind his back.

The Soldier stands easily on the man’s lower back with one foot, the other pressing close to the base of his twisted neck while his left arm has him by one ankle, just shy of taking out his knee. Instinct stills the man, keeps him from kicking out too aggressively.

The barest weight on his vulnerable neck is enough to make him doubt the safety of his spine.

From somewhere along the walls, somebody laughs, just a little. So does Halford.

She crouches down to the man’s face, where his cheek is pressed into the bloodstained cobbles, his breathing loud and laboured. When her fingers thread through his matted, sweaty hair, he tries to shrink away but the Soldier’s boot keeps him in place

“Hello, Hawkeye,” Halford says pleasantly, welcoming.

The asset does not acknowledge her, so the Soldier tightens his grip on his wrist until the bones scrape together uncomfortably. A wrenched sound is pulled out of the asset’s throat, constricted by his reluctance and the weight of the Soldier holding him down.

He isn’t fighting the Soldier’s hold anymore but he hasn’t submitted either, not yet. He’s a fighter. He is biding his time and the Soldier can’t help wondering why.

Halford’s fingers tighten in the asset’s hair, forcing him to look up.

His eyes are bloodshot, a burst blood vessel in one of them that’s stained all around the iris. He’s quick, that much is true. Even half-pressed into the ground, he seems to take in everything with his rapid, glassy eyes.

His breaths are bullish, almost panting.

“You’ve caused quite a mess,” Halford continues, petting strands off blond hair off his damp face. “You owe me four lives already.”

When she stands up, she makes a show of brushing her hands clean of him.

“Rumlow, once the weapon is in the lab, you should report your arrival. Soldier, bring the asset inside.”

As she walks away, gesturing with two fingers for Rumlow’s men to follow, the Soldier watches as Rumlow leans down on one knee. He’s exactly where Halford had been, crouched in the direct line of the asset’s sight.

Rumlow reaches out with an index finger, resting the edge of his nail against the asset’s eyelashes in quiet, delicate threat.

The asset, wired electric already, goes utterly motionless. It’s not hard to read the fear steeling his face. Rumlow’s always had a mean kind of smile.

“Oh, Hawkeye,” he says through that mean grin, gentle sounding, friendly. “I’d tell you it’s nothing personal, but the truth is, I’m really going to enjoy this.”

The asset grunts something breathless and distorted that sounds like _Fuck you, Rumlow, _but Rumlow’s already standing. He looks at the Soldier again, the way he always does. Interested, appraising.

“I know the Doc said no injuries. Still, if he causes you any problems, you go right ahead and break his thumbs. Alright? You can tell her it was me.”

The Soldier doesn’t respond.

Rumlow might have authority over the other agents, but he’s outranked by Halford. She said no injuries, so that’s what the Soldier will deliver.

Rumlow leaves, looking a lot like it takes him a great deal of effort not to kick the asset before walking away.

The Soldier glances up, taking in the twenty guns above him.

In one fluid motion, the Soldier steps off the asset’s back, pulling him up and around quickly enough to keep his legs down.

_“Oh shit,” _the asset heaves uselessly, grappling at the Soldier with hard fingers.

Without his feet steady beneath him, he’s got no momentum. Dragging his wrists together in his unyielding left hand, the Soldier kicks the asset’s kidneys just hard enough to keep him down and drags him backwards through the courtyard.

To his credit, perhaps, the asset causes enough problems to earn himself those suggested broken thumbs. He’s lucky Halford supersedes Rumlow, otherwise he’d be in a lot more pain than he already is.

The asset is well trained, hindered by his disorientation and the Soldier’s superior strength. Whatever drugs they filled him up with might not be enough to take him all the way down, but they keep him just enough off-balance to stay sloppy, feeble.

He’s mumbling under his breath, shapeless words that could be in any language.

About halfway down the corridor, however, the asset’s full weight nearly drags the Soldier to his knees when he goes unexpectedly dead.

It’s a _stupid _error, lazy.

The Soldier compensates to catch the asset’s bulk and immediately his legs are kicked out from under him. His grip loosens in surprise, just enough, too much and the Soldier hits the ground hard, rolling left and taking the scrambling asset determinedly with him as the corner of a fist catches his chin.

Hands finally free, the asset gains several steps of futile distance before the Soldier grabs his ankle and yanks him down.

The asset yells as he smacks the ground, a mixture of expletives and pained yelps that quickly get cut off by the Soldier’s hand clamping tight around his throat.

_“Fuck you – sh – n – g – fu –”_

Looping behind him out of harm’s way, the Soldier squeezes, holding fast even as the asset bucks and bends, gets a fistful of the Soldier’s hair and pulls.

His consciousness vanishes quickly, slips away from the asset like water spilling down a stream.

This time, the Soldier’s ready for his weight, grabs his forearms and pulls him.

By the time the Soldier drags the asset into the large room, it’s much more crowded than before. A wicked, purple handshape is already forming over the asset’s throat and around his wrist, however this is probably still preferable to broken thumbs.

A group of technicians have clustered around the not-rifle case, which has been opened to reveal something long, bladelike, with a strange iridescent glow to it.

Rumlow’s there, with one of his men and one of Ayling’s. At the sight of the Soldier, or perhaps his charge, they all smirk gleefully. Halford is at the centre of the activity, her voice louder than the others’. Scientists and technicians move to and fro about her as if she is the eye of a great storm.

At the sight of the Soldier, she grimaces.

“You’d better not have damaged him,” she says, pointing to the Chair. _The _Chair.

The Soldier pauses, unsure of his orders. The asset is still out.

“Put him in and strap him down,” Halford says impatiently.

It’s laborious, making sure nothing gets inadvertently broken as he manoeuvres the ragdoll asset into the Chair. It is strange, in a way. The Soldier doesn’t remember seeing anybody else in the Chair before.

Halford indicates with a sharp jab of her finger where the Soldier should stand, then sets about checking the asset’s bruised throat. While she doesn’t say anything, her disapproval is clear. The humming chatter in the room hasn’t vanished completely; it vibrates like a hive in the air above them, caught in the round arched ceiling.

Before a minute has passed, the asset wakes up.

It’s a quick wakening.

He comes to fighting, might easily have lashed out lethal on instinct were it not for the bands holding him down.

His eyes open, and they are rapid, measuring everything he can set his sights on, which is mostly Halford. They’re grey, nearly purple in the moonbeam ivory lights hanging from the ceiling. The right one has a starburst of violent blue-red that rings the iris but it doesn’t appear to hinder him.

He’s wearing only a pair of empty-pocket combat trousers and a black, ripped undershirt. When he shivers, it makes him wince. Broken ribs, maybe. His breaths remain shallow.

“Hello, Hawkeye,” Halford says again.

This time, he reacts, frowning at her face like a child. His attention seems torn between her eyes and mouth.

Halford’s got a familiar gleam in her eye as she snaps her fingers at Rumlow, holding her palm flat upwards.

“Give them to me.”

Rumlow reaches into his pocket.

The Soldier watches the asset. Even blank-faced with effort, his eyes betray him. Whatever Rumlow gives Halford, he’s distressed by it.

_“No fucking way,” _he snarls, his consonants running into each other with almost no vowels and effort in the clench of his teeth. His voice is hoarse, courtesy no doubt of the Soldier’s grip imprinted into the column of his throat.

Halford approaches and though his limbs and torso are effectively restrained, the asset bucks and bites, grunting nasty. She nearly loses a finger when he puts one hand near the side of his face.

“Soldier,” Halford snarls, and so the Soldier does.

He uses his left hand to reach and snag a fistful of the asset’s damp hair. It’s of no consequence to him. The asset will break his teeth before he damages the metal.

With his head wrenched back, his bruised throat vulnerable and swallowing, the asset can only blink and stare, every muscle straining for freedom as Halford reaches up to insert something – into his ear.

She does it carefully, with an intimate caress of the earlobe that makes the asset flinch.

She takes her time with the other ear. Spends almost two full minutes inspecting patches of damaged skin between his ear and hairline, while the asset fails to hold still. The Soldier sees this one better from his angle, as a small device is inserted into the asset’s ear and looped over the shell.

It’s a hearing aid.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Halford asks in her sweetest voice, the one she uses when anger hasn’t worked.

The asset licks his lips and does not reply. He looks sideways, to the Soldier, holds his gaze with intrusive interest that feels erroneous, discomfiting. Halford’s the only person who really seeks eye contact with the Soldier, but it’s never like this. Never so curious, never so – innocent.

“Do I know you?” the asset rasps, abruptly more polite than he had been to Halford, which is infinitely dangerous.

The Soldier does not startle, although that is what he is. His grip tightens in the asset’s hair as the man continues.

“Have you tried to kill me before? I won’t hold it against you. Everybody’s tried to kill me. My best friend. My boss. My brother. I definitely know you from somewhere –”

The asset talks _fast. _Almost as fast as his eyes move.

He’s speaking unnaturally loudly, seemingly oblivious to how close he is to being scalped. He’s American. Midwest, by the sounds of it, though he’s neatened up his consonants a little.

“Maybe I’ve tried to kill you?”

He’s still talking. Still looking at the Soldier, and the Soldier should look away, should look at anything else, but he doesn’t.

He _doesn’t._

“Don’t take it personally. I’ve tried to kill a lot of people. My best friend. My boss. My brother. Actually, I _did _kill my brother. Kind of. Not really. We just send Christmas cards now. But he’s an asshole so I’m not – wait – are you SHIELD? Shit, have we – I definitely – what the fuck – Rumlow have you –”

And, quite suddenly, he stops, eyes mid-turn in their wide sockets as if looking for the man in question, distracted from himself.

His mouth is slack, his eyes penny bright.

The Soldier follows his line of sight to the table of technicians, twelve feet away. They have parted, revealing the open not-rifle case, and inside, the iridescent spear.

The asset’s mouth presses in a hard line. He has to look downwards to see it, head forced back the way it is. When he swallows, it takes effort; he has to hold his breath to compensate.

For a moment, the asset looks, and the entire room looks back. Halford is positively thrilled.

“You didn’t think we wanted you for your sparkling personality, did you, Hawkeye?”

“I am a motherfucking de_light, _lady. And you’ve got no idea what you’re messing with.”

He’s gone still again. Hard and brittle, like that distorted _Fuck you, Rumlow _with a fingernail at his eyelid.

Halford takes a step forward.

“You’re right,” she says, her sugarcane voice turning into shards. “You’re going to show me, Hawkeye.”

The asset. Volatile, unenhanced. _Hawkeye._

His eyes, they turn back to the Soldier. He looks right into the Soldier’s face. Rips it apart with his innocent curiosity, searching, burning, calculating.

The Soldier has never been so wholly _seen _before, seen the way people are seen.

Those grey starburst eyes dart over his face, more threatening than a knife; more dangerous, too. Then they widen.

The asset’s expression morphs, it transforms. Confusion gives way like leaves from trees to a scrunching, scraped up horror as he lets out a shaky exhale. As if he has looked at the Soldier and seen _something._

“Holy fucking shit,” the asset whispers, a secret half-between them. “You’re Bu–”

The Soldier wakes up, ready to comply.

There’s an asset in containment, and the Soldier’s mission is to stand guard.

The Soldier has been standing guard for coming on eighteen hours, in a room cut in two by a huge set of iron bars.

In the cordoned quarter, the asset is on his knees. His wrists have been shackled to the ground, the chains slack with give, held in by heavy bolts. A third chain is bolted to the wall behind him, and is connected to a thick metal band that has been clamped around the lower half of his face, covering his mouth.

Something effectively dangerous seems to have been pushed into the asset’s mouth behind the metal belt, because the four times he’s tried to talk so far, trickles of blood have oozed out from the corners of his lips, smearing down his jaw and throat, which is badly bruised with a handprint.

The asset has been slipping in and out of lucidity the entire time. Whenever he’s cognizant, he’s taken to staring hard directly into the Soldier’s eyes.

The asset’s own are greyish blue, and there’s a burst blood vessel in the right one. He’s been sweating and shivering for almost five hours, head dropping and jerking arrhythmic as his body simultaneously seeks and battles sleep.

“It must be the spear,” a man across the room is saying. A scientist, or wants to be. “He’s not entered full REM state in almost a week. He should be dead, or close to it.”

The Soldier does not look around, only assesses the asset with this new information despite the fact it had clearly not been for his ears. The asset is many things, including furious and feverish. What he is not, is close to death.

The Soldier does not guard weak prisoners.

A second man, cleverer than the first, the same vowel patterns as Halford, hums in agreement.

“It affects brain functionality. It’s an energy source, even remotely. Nobody is controlling the energy of the spear, but the energy is still activating in Barton’s mind. Whoever got him away from the alien, they didn’t get him away from the alien’s _weapon._ We need to find a way to control it.”

The Soldier turns his head, just so, and in response the asset’s brow creases thoughtfully. He tugs a little against the gag, and a sound strains muted behind his lips.

The second technician is still speaking.

“In any case, can we just control Barton’s body, or actually change _him?_ We know Barton _did _what the alien wanted. We don’t know if he _wanted to, _or if his body acted against his will.”

“Does it matter? The results are the same.”

This is why the first man is the stupider of the two.

“Of course it matters.”

Halford’s voice cuts through the men’s hush, like a cold wind across the desert. She has visited the asset twice; once to take a vial of blood, which had resulted in the Soldier’s handprints now purple-peppering the asset’s body in fingerprint splotches, the second time to engage in a staring contest that the Soldier thinks maybe the asset won.

Now, she doesn’t even spare the asset a glance as she strides across the echoing room. She’s wearing fresh clothes, a lab coat over the top of them, and is being followed by an agent, who is fully armed in SWAT gear and a deep-set scowl.

“Doctor Halford–”

“We’re down nine more agents,” she says without acknowledging the addressal. “Rumlow, Bass and their teams have been recalled. SHIELD just declared Agent Barton missing, armed and highly dangerous. There’s a kill on sight order. Gentlemen, welcome to Project HAWK. If it works, you’ll be looking a lovely promotion.”

The murmuring sounds of intrigue are unsurprising. HYDRA is not free of petty self-interest, much as it strives to be. The asset has not reacted to Halford beyond one flashing glance in her direction. His eyes return, glossy blue, to the Soldier’s face, like he’s trying to memorise it.

Futile, at best. The Soldier doesn’t have a face that can be memorised.

“Still angling for Project SPIDER?” one of the men, the stupid one, asks in a sly voice that betrays amusement.

Unexpectedly, Halford laughs. A chitter of sound, close to fake.

“It’s healthy to have aspirations.”

There’s a smirk in her voice. The Solder hears her, the tread of her shoes, her breath, the rustle of her clothes. He even hears the silent energy emanating from the bladed sceptre they’ve been investigating all day.

He does not, however, hear her speak.

Not the first time, nor the second. His eyes have been pinned, nails into the wall, by the asset’s hungry, calculating glare, and the Soldier does not register Halford’s address until the talons of her fingernails are in his face. Fingers in his jaw, thumb in his opposing cheekbone.

Halford drags his face around to hers, the bare skin of her palm against his slack mouth, unafraid of how easily he could take a bite out of her hand. His mouth, forced open, the front of his teeth against her palm; a strange, unruly intimacy.

She’s shorter than him, and the movement turns him downwards. He looks her in the eyes, because she abhors the cowardice of evasion.

Halford turns her head, nails clawed into the Soldier’s cheeks, and she has another of those long, voiceless conversations with the asset through the bars of his cage, while the Soldier waits, staring obediently at the delicate lashes at the corner of her eye.

When she smiles at the asset, it digs a slight dimple in her cheek, only noticeable because the Soldier is so close.

She lets go of him without speaking, seems satisfied that the asset has understood something vital.

She’s right, of course, always is. This time, when she unlocks the cage and approaches the asset, he does not so much as flinch. His eyes follow her suspiciously.

The blood has dried in track marks from the gag all the way down to his collarbones. Thick, dark red lines crusting and flaking over his skin. His muscles cord and strain with effort when she reaches out, hooking small devices into and around his ears.

Hearing aids.

The asset is deaf.

Something sits uncomfortably in the Soldier about this, like perhaps he should already have known that. But how could he? He is given information relevant to the mission. The mission is to guard.

Halford steps away once the aids are in place, leaving the asset twitching in his cuffs.

There’s a faint, repetitive tap of metal as the chains pull at their bolts.

“Is that uncomfortable?” she asks, much louder than she normally speaks.

The asset winces, eyes fluttering closed. He’s holding his breath, as another trickle of blood seeps around his chin.

“We’ll fix that,” Halford continues with a professional kind of curiosity, similar to the way she talks about the Soldier’s arm.

The asset’s eyes fly open, wide, alarmed.

A sound rattles from inside his throat. His face flushes around the gag, a protest and a scream swallowed whole.

Halford speaks right over it.

“Now, if I get the Soldier to take off this nasty gag, are you going to start spouting nonsense, or have you learned your lesson?”

The asset takes another look at the Soldier before casting his eyes down in submission. He looks, for the first time, like an asset should look. Like a prisoner should look. Neck bent downwards, benign, overcome.

Halford seems gratified, gesturing the Soldier towards him.

The mouthpiece is wicked looking, but turns out to be only a simple catch and release. The Solder unclips it, opening the latch with his right hand while the left takes hold of the band. He removes it slowly, cautious of doing damage that will displease Halford, and when the asset looks up at him there’s an unfamiliar expression on his face.

It was a metal plate that had been pushed between his teeth, big enough to hold down his tongue, sharp enough to cut the insides of his cheeks. When the Soldier removes it, the asset keeps his mouth slack. When his head tips forwards again, newly released, blood and saliva drips out from between his lips and pools on the floor.

The asset works his jaw tentatively, sucking in wet shallow breaths, head dropping lead weight. Without the choker’s hold, this time, he falls right over, hands barely catching him in time.

The Soldier stays close, ready to grab him if he moves to attack.

He just stays on his hands and knees, muscles in spasm, head bowed.

“Hawkeye, _Hawkeye._ Half of SHIELD think you’ve defected,” Halford tells the back of his dark blond head, crusted with sweat and blood. “That you’re off doing your new God’s bidding. The other half think you’ve thrown yourself off a bridge. As far as the World Security Council are concerned, you’re the most wanted man in the United States. Poor Hawkeye. It’s nice to be popular, isn’t it?”

A sound that could be laughter, or sobbing, or dying, erupts from the asset in a tremulous shiver. He says something, lost in the extra vowels jarred out of him.

Halford gives the Soldier a curt nod. He takes hold of the thick of the asset’s hair, pulling him back up off his hands. He stays strangely limp as he’s manhandled, though it must be painful. Once he’s upright, he says it again, through a red grin as tears slide down his cheeks, mixing with the blood smeared over his jaw.

“It’s Pierce, isn’t it?” He lets out another foghorn, misery laugh. “I’m saw’m. Tha’ day. Fuckin’ – that’s how you’re in with the WSC. How you got through SHIELD. You’ve got. _Ha. _Fury? Is he? No. Fuck you no. He wouldn’t. Shit. Just – fuck you, HYDRA. Alexander fuckin’ Pierce. He even said – oh _shit.”_

Despite the blood still pooling in and pouring out of his mouth, the asset seems to pick up momentum, the longer he’s left to talk. Halford’s expression is blank, and oddly enough so is the asset’s.

His eyes, though. It’s his eyes that give him away.

_Hawkeye,_ Halford had called him.

Incorrect, so wholly inaccurate. The Soldier has never seen eyes so expressive, so _human._ So human, looking at the Soldier like – like something. Something untranslatable; a human, emotive language that the Soldier does not speak.

“I saw him – he said. He was right fucking there. This whole time? He was there. Right next to – next to –”

The asset’s hawk-human eyes slide right on back to the Soldier’s face. Halford, out of nowhere, tenses.

Across the room, through the bars, the two men with the spear are watching.

The asset stops blabbering, leaving only the labour of his breaths. At a look from Halford, the Soldier lets go of his hair. The asset sways, manages to stay upright this time, then folds back to sit on his calves, hands loose at his sides as he turns his bloody-mouth glare to Halford.

“You fucking monster,” he whispers, a resigned softness to his words.

Halford is unaffected.

She’s distracted, distracted by her own curiosity. By the spear on the other side of the room, and by the device she slips out of her pocket. She doesn’t see what the Soldier sees.

She sees the asset, slumped too easily.

She doesn’t see his hands folding up in their cuffs, curving inwards, slender, more slender than the metal bands with his loosely jointed knuckles.

He’s dislocated his thumbs.

The Soldier reacts, almost a second too late.

The asset _lunges. _Lunges like a viper, like a hawk.

In a moment the asset is ripped free of his bonds, they clatter to the ground as his feet launch him towards Halford, a sound of effort, a sound of torment, ringing through the room. It’s desperate, ill-planned and so futile that the Soldier is taken by surprise, almost doesn’t catch him in time.

Almost.

In one sweep of movement the Soldier darts forwards, his arms looping under the asset’s and he drops to his knees to push his legs down, shins over calves, shoulders wrenched upwards.

The asset’s head swings backwards but the Soldier is too far away for him to make contact. He yelps and cries out, weak as a lamb in the Soldier’s hold, shouting more aggressive than he has been so far, a hoarse ricochet of _Buy me dinner first, barn, _and Halford, she –

She walks away. Briskly, confident in the Soldier’s grip on her unleashed prisoner. At ease with his astonishingly stupid, would-be successful escape attempt.

The asset’s head shakes, lolls ragdoll as he chokes, while the Soldier shifts his grip. He’s kneeling on the backs of the asset’s legs, leveraged by the hold of his squirming wrists stretched outwards away from his body, while Halford snatches up the spear from both men, its glow casting eerie shadows over her stony face, her dark hair clouding around her cheeks.

She holds it two handed across her chest, ready like an assault rifle, precious like a cradled child. A ripping, shrieking roar barrels out of the asset as he curses her, her and all her ancestors but no force of vitriol ceases her advance.

Halford re-enters the cage, and the men are shouting behind her – _We don’t know! – _but Halford only raises the sceptre to her own waist height.

For one frozen moment, the Soldier thinks she’s going to run the blade right through the asset’s writhing chest.

_“You won’t have it!” _the asset bellows, hysterical, terrified, livid as his whole body bows to breaking, his spine arching like he wants her to cut him in half.

She doesn’t.

The tip of the spear, enrobed in ghostly light, barely grazes the asset’s torso.

The asset goes still.

He isn’t frozen. He isn’t deadweight. This is not the stillness of fear or unconsciousness. It is as if Halford has injected him with a pure formula of tranquillity. The stillness of obedience. He kneels precisely as the Soldier holds him, staring up at Halford, though the Soldier cannot see his face.

The Soldier feels an unusual flicker of something, a current between his chest and fingertips, low voltage, warm.

Curiosity. He feels _curious._

“Let go of him, Soldier,” Halford orders.

The Soldier complies, standing up and away, eyes never leaving the asset’s head.

“Stand up,” she orders the asset.

The asset complies.

Halford beams at him.

“Soldier,” she says, her mouth a flat line of barely contained excitement. “This is Hawk. He’s going to be very, very useful.”

The Hawk looks at the Soldier, with eyes white-blue, silvered in the ceiling light. They are not a human’s eyes anymore. Now, _now, _they look like a hawk’s eyes. Focused, intent; cold as their colour.

There’s something else flickering then, in the current running between the Soldier’s chest and fingertips. It is an alien feeling, uncomfortable and sinking, like the tread of a foot in deep snow.

Halford, eager, delighted. A sceptre in her hands that she regards as a crown upon a monarch’s head.

Behind her, the two men at the entrance to the cell, awestruck, animated. They flit around the Hawk, who remains motionless, awaiting his instructions.

Twenty-six minutes later, both men are dead.

“Let’s do this, James,” the asset murmurs, incongruous, his human eyes feral and blood pouring from his mouth.

“Do not kill him, Soldier,” Halford spits, even as she locks them in the cage.

He doesn’t kill him.

There is an asset in containment, and the Soldier’s mission is to stand guard.

The Soldier must guard him in case he breaks his locks, but there’s more to it than that.

“He is your responsibility, Soldier,” Halford had said. “No harm can come to him.”

This had seemed unlikely at the time. The asset, come to harm, in the heart of a HYDRA facility with the Soldier between him and the rest of the world?

Then, of course, it had become quite clear. The asset had almost succeeded in snapping his own neck.

So, it is the Soldier’s mission to protect the asset, mostly from himself. The mouthpiece is holding back his words again, cutting his mouth to ribbons.

“At least he can’t swallow his tongue like this,” Halford had replied when the Soldier brought it to her attention.

The asset’s injuries have been accounted for, from his bruised left heel bone to the burst blood vessel in his right eye. His body has been pushed to the brink of sheer, fatal exhaustion. By way of magic or his own willpower is mostly unclear, although from what the Soldier gathers, Halford thinks it’s magic.

The Soldier is inclined to agree. Even he, functioning at base minimum, requires more rest than the asset has had.

So, the Soldier stands guard, as is his mission. The asset blinks his steely glare, blood on his jaw, flinching at loud noises.

Halford’s dead men have been easily replaced. She is as indifferent to them as she was to the ones before and the Soldier believes it is entirely possible that, had she not been there to witness the messy demise of the first two, she would not have noticed the changeover at all.

The new pair, at least, are both mostly clever this time. Mostly clever in the sense that they are not stupid, as well as in the sense that they watch the Soldier with idle, indignant interest. The stupid ones always do one of two things: ask questions, or show fear. The Soldier does not know which is more incomprehensible.

This time, when they test the sceptre, they actually sound like they are gathering data, rather than overexciting themselves.

The Soldier doesn’t really know, because it is not his mission to know. Nonetheless, they talk loudly enough for the Soldier to hear them, and so does Halford, sometimes. Perhaps they do not know how cleverly this room carries sound. Perhaps they simply do not care.

“The alien had him for three days and he showed no sign of shaking him,” one of the new scientists is saying, crunching and crumpling an empty plastic bottle over and over in his hands. “It doesn’t make sense how he can keep shaking it so quickly now.”

The other offers a deliberating sound of disagreement.

“Well, actually, he did.” This one has a soft lilt to his voice, rounded, perhaps Finnish. “He shot at Fury, according to the file. And his second in command. SHIELD’s top marksman, and he fails two headshots from less than ten metres?”

_Sharpshooter. _The Soldier tucks this seed of information away with the other nuggets about the asset he has gathered so far.

_Hawkeye. SHIELD Agent. Barton. Deaf. Left-preference ambidextrous. High pain threshold. American – Midwest. Believes the Soldier is called James._

It would appear that the Soldier is alone in being aware of this last piece of information.

The asset had murmured it through a pool of blood, waggling his fingers, beckoning hungry, taunting. Almost as if he had been speaking to himself, some figment of his imagination. It could be that the asset’s name is James. Only, he had looked the Soldier in the eye as he said it. Keeps doing that, truth be told. As if they are equals. Then again, the asset is a weapon, too, so maybe they are. The Soldier is not sure what that means exactly. He’s never had an equal before. He is a solitary form.

The first man and Halford are considering the Finnish scientist’s theory, hushed voices stretched in the gloom of the low light.

“The alien was powerful. It’s to be expected he would wield the weapon more effectively at first,” Halford eventually says.

It’s unclear whether _the weapon_ is the spear or the asset. It could be both, after all.

In the cage, the asset’s eyes crinkle at the corners, almost like he’s smiling.

“Perhaps Barton would have fought him off eventually, given enough time. So, what we’re seeing is the same process on a shorter timeline. Control using the spear’s hold isn’t naturally permanent.”

They have brought out the ghostly _Hawk_ four times already, never again daring to set him loose.

The longest he has remained obedient before the asset has returned to his mouthy, volatile form has been thirty-nine minutes.

There is the distinct sound of a sigh from across the room, which could have come from any of the three.

“He might not fight for control if he didn’t remember why he’d want to.”

It’s the Finnish man. The asset twitches, head cocking as best he can. When he leans forwards, the chain in the wall scrapes.

The Soldier listens intently, too, can feel a rush of blood in his ears, in his chest. He is, quite suddenly, tense as a gun barrel, can taste it like metal in his mouth. He strains and he listens, and that is the only reason why he hears Halford’s reply.

“The process would kill him.”

The man has a lightness to his voice, a sting like lemon juice in a cut as he says: “Well, yes. If we did it in one go.”

“Soldier,” Halford barks, and the Soldier turns around.

The Soldier wakes up, ready to comply.

**a cold prison cell, probably europe**

**hawkeye**

** **

It’s Bucky Fucking Barnes.

The Winter Motherfucking Soldier is James Buchanan Barnes.

It keeps coming back to smack him in the face all over again. In spite of the rather major personal crisis he’s going through, this remains a rather absurd, prevalent fact in Clint Barton’s current predicament.

And what a goddamn predicament it is.

_Absolutely outdone yourself this time, Hawkeye, _he berates himself for the umpteenth time.

Internally, of course. Silently. Because there is a shard of nasty tasting metal in his mouth.

Despite the ragged scars it’s going to leave on the insides of his cheeks, this is, however, a mere footnote in Clint Barton’s Current Predicament. As, honestly, is the outrageously horrifying identity of the Winter Soldier.

No, the real Current Predicament has presented itself with two startling problems.

One is the large, glowing stick of doom that HYDRA have managed to get their grubby hands on – along with Clint himself. The other is the way Young Victoria Frankenstein keeps talking about his goddamn ears.

Clint is, contrary to the condescending disbelief of a lot of other SHIELD agents, very comfortable with his deafness. It’s not quite total, although for the sake of comprehensibility, it perhaps might as well be. Without his aids, everything is silent but for the loudest of bellowing sounds, which are a mushy collection of vowels that could easily be whale songs for all he can understand them.

Nevertheless, he’s not once dropped the ball on an op because of his lack of hearing.

He’s dropped the ball for other reasons, undoubtedly. More than once because of his admittedly rather overwhelming need to prioritise animal welfare, but that’s the beside the point. It just means that he’d still have nearly missed the shot of that bioweapon engineer even if he had perfect hearing.

Nearly, of course; obviously he hadn’t _actually _missed the shot. Because he’s Hawkeye, and he never misses.

When one of the HYDRA low-lives finally brought up how unlikely it was that Clint would’ve failed to kill Fury and Hill unless he meant to, he really did try to not feel bewildering gratitude that finally _somebody _thought to bring it up. He’s definitely not supposed to be happy about HYDRA’s acknowledgement of his skills – especially when it seems HYDRA’s acknowledgement of his skills is what has led him here, to this moment.

His Current Predicament.

Which is, mainly, being chained to a wall, gagged like he’s rabid, getting repeatedly brainwashed by a glowing stick, while unable to effectively terminate himself because _Bucky Barnes _keeps stopping him.

Christ, Clint’s barely held two actual conversations with Steve Rogers and he can’t shake the bone deep, repugnant rage he feels just thinking it.

Honestly, Clint probably wouldn’t have recognised Barnes at all if he hadn’t flicked through Rogers’ file less than two days before the Loki shitstorm. And even so, would’ve probably called himself crazy and convinced himself it was a freaky lookalike if it hadn’t been for the Doc’s reaction to Clint blurting out his name like an idiot.

Not even dear Bucky had reacted to it, hadn’t even blinked, like it was just another word in a vast, meaningless vocabulary.

Only, then the Doc had flipped her damn lid. Ordered her darling Soldier and Merry Men back and forth boomerang, ending up with Clint caged in this damn cell, watching helplessly while the dead-eyed Winter Soldier willingly planted himself in that Hell-Chair, lying back like he was getting himself a tanning session, then proceeded to scream the walls bloody in absolute, unadulterated agony.

There are things that Clint has come to accept he can never unhear, no matter how badly he wishes he could.

His mom’s whimpered prayers. The Swordsman’s death rattle. Natasha, choking back her sadness like sins in her mouth. A silk voice whispering: _You have heart._

Now, he can add the sound of Bucky Barnes’ brain getting melted to the list.

Then again, now he thinks about it, maybe he is going to unhear it, all of it, forever. Because by the looks of it, these bags of cats are thinking about blending soup between Clint’s ears, too, as if that’ll help make him a bit more amenable to mind rape.

Clint is not quite ready yet to accept that they are possibly, quite probably, correct about that.

He’s also really, really, really tired.

It’s been almost two weeks since the Tesseract vomited up a Norse God and Clint has, at best, only catnapped or been knocked unconscious ever since.

He’s exhausted. Part of him keeps expecting – hoping, at this point – his body is just going to give up completely. Shut down, case closed, do not collect two-hundred dollars, nice to see you, thanks for playing, off now gently into that good night.

It just _won’t._

His body is refusing to die, much like it always has even when it would probably have been for the best. Like after Budapest, or Barney, or his eighth birthday.

Clint really, really, really should be dead by now.

Then again, so should Bucky Barnes.

So, maybe they belong in the same club, after all.

**brooklyn, new york**

**clint**

Clint had been there, right beside her, when Natasha finally woke up following her encounter with the Winter Soldier.

Not that he had known at the time that’s what it was. All Clint had known was this:

‘Tasha kissed his cheekbone before leaving for a routine op, whispered something he could not hear but he felt it, a promise tattooed into his skin, like all her other promises. He watched her leave with his eyes slit open, head buried in their pillows that smelled of her, of them. He murmured a response he could not hear, but felt it in his throat and on his tongue.

Her smile over her shoulder, sly. _I know, _her eyes said in the semi-darkness from across the room.

Then, four days later, Phil had pulled him out of training, leaving the ducklings he’d been terrorising stranded with their sniper rifles to tell him: _There’s been a complication._

Clint had muscled his way into her hospital room the way he always told her not to, and when she woke up, he had one of her hands in both of his, and he kissed her fingers, five desperate pecks with his breaths ragged in his chest.

“So dramatic,” she had murmured, with amusement that did not reach her eyes, but still she stroked the corner of his eye with her thumb. Tender, the kind she always said she would never be.

“Don’t do that,” he told her, an unfair plea that she did not dignify, because they both knew better.

She told him about it, a few weeks later. When the wound was scarring and they were lying on opposite ends of the couch, only their ankles touching. His hands felt empty without her between them, and he clutched his coffee too tight to fill the void.

She told him about all of it. The precision of the bullet, the glint of white light on the ball of a metal shoulder, the jarring, terrible feeling that she had forgotten something important.

Clint did not tell her, but the way she sounded, then. It had scraped him out hollow, had left him hurting for days. She sounded like she did the day they met. When he put down his bow and arrow. When he said _Natalia, stop, _and she asked, _How?_

Clint did not tell her, but he thought it so ferociously that perhaps she saw it in his face anyway:

_I have loved you all my life. Before I ever knew you. Before I knew myself._

**a cold prison cell, probably europe**

**hawkeye**

Clint appreciates a good sense of routine in his captors.

There are plenty of ways to break prisoners, none more efficiently than fucking up their schedules, but apparently that’s not what HYDRA’s about. And Clint? He really, really appreciates it. Particularly seeing how he’s got so many other things to be expending his increasingly limited mental efforts on than anticipating sadistic whims.

Primarily, he is chained up in his cage, with the Winter Soldier standing guard. The Winter Soldier who is, as his brain foghorns at him again, _Bucky Fucking Barnes._

He is fed once a day, the same as Barnes, who accepts what smells and tastes suspiciously similar to a protein shake with the same indifference he’d accepted his chair torture.

Clint knows better than to refuse food when it’s offered at times like this, even if it is HYDRA offering it. Even without reinforcement of that notion through his colourful past experiences as a prisoner, growing up hungry had taught him that lesson early.

In any case, the Doc clearly wants him alive and vaguely healthy; he wouldn’t be surprised if whatever they’re giving him is actually doing his body some genuine good.

What a damn thought.

Bathroom breaks are, well. Less nightmarish than they could be, he supposes. There’s a room adjacent to Clint’s master suite that could with a bit of work pass for a military bunker wash room. There’s an ominous drain in the floor which swallows up the water he’d been jet hosed with after being stripped down the first time.

He was definitely not too proud to piss himself while being hosed down, that time, just in case they weren’t going to give him another chance.

Dignity is, at best, just another vulnerability in these kinds of situations.

His assumptions however had turned out to be unfounded. He’s afforded doorless toilet privileges what he guesses is once a day, which he’s _not _going to feel outright grateful for, but is also not going to risk losing by being a stupid jailbreaker again. Maybe if he was still a young punk he’d chance it, go all out and force their hands, but he’s not, and he knows better now.

There’s just no sense in making your life _more _difficult than it already is. Not when you’re getting chained up by Neo Nazis.

Not to mention, if he gets dragged anywhere else by the hair by the Winter Wonder Arm, his scalp is going to slide right off his skull. Then again, seeing as how they’ve left him naked since the hose down, he should probably be grateful he’s not getting dragged around by the testicles.

What he needs is an out. A real opportunity, a proper one. One that won’t result in getting himself further incapacitated, or Barnes hurt again.

Which is yet another Clint Barton doozy of this whole shitshow, of course. He’s pretty sure the Doc saw just how utterly horrified he’d been by the process she’d referred to as a _wipe._

She knows, or has guessed, that Clint is going to do his level best not to have to witness that again.

It’s about all that’s kept him quiet whenever this metal mouthplate gets removed, when all he really wants to do is yell at the top of his lungs to his personal suicide watcher: _YOUR NAME IS BUCKY BARNES AND YOU ARE A HERO AND STEVE, STEVE, STEVE ROGERS IS ALIVE!_

The thing is, Clint can’t seem to figure out exactly how much the Soldier, how much _Barnes,_ he corrects himself, would actually understand, how _present _he really is.

Even after two so-called _wipes, _during which it became abundantly clear his short-term memory had been obliterated, Barnes has maintained all his basic functions, and even some level of initiative.

He acts when prompted, as proved by the obediently interpreted nods from the Doc or drinking the protein shakes, and on past orders, like his surprising concern over the damage to Clint’s mouth that he’d voiced to the Doc, who had simply made a glib reference to Clint’s suicidal failures in response, which really had just been plain rude of her.

(Clint’s counting his blessings that they must know – courtesy of his goddamn _thieved _medical file that the Doc’s been flashing around – that he doesn’t have a cyanide tooth that requires extracting. Which had been how he lost his back molars in Fukuoka.)

So, Barnes does have some level of _thought. _He’s not a damn zombie. Nor is he really what Clint would call an attack dog.

Hell, that’s what Clint would call _Rumlow, _the traitorous asshole.

No, if anything, Clint’s starting to think this blank slate version of Sergeant James B. Barnes is maybe just a very lethal, disturbingly obedient child. There’s a dependency about him, most easily read in the way he looks at his handlers, the Doc worst of all. It’s not emotional, or caring, or anything half so gentle. It’s just – _need._

Barnes, the _Soldier,_ looks at the Doc because he has learned, the way children learn, that the Doc has what he needs. And no matter what she does, or how she hurts him, the Soldier will continue to operate on that first, most primal lesson.

Clint had been right in his assessment of her. She is a monster.

They all are.

Clint shifts on his knees, settling back more comfortably on his ankles.

Barnes looks him over once, checking. He’s done this every time Clint has moved, just in case, clearly worried he’s going to try slipping out of his handcuffs.

Fat chance. He’d have to crush all the bones in his hands to fit them through these fuckers. Double-jointed thumbs are really something of a one-shot party trick.

Wasteful. It had been a desperate move and, well. He’d almost definitely still been concussed.

Clint would happily give himself another concussion for the chance to break Rumlow’s face again, like he’s pretty sure he remembers doing in the filthy back of the transport van.

It’s starting to get tricky to know for sure exactly how long he’s been here, despite the convenient routine of his days.

His micro-sleeps are disorienting, as are the constant white lights of the room. The Doctor’s lab partners work in rotating shifts at all hours, so there’s never a definitive _night, _just quieter and louder stretches of time.

Barnes has been removed from Barton Duty three times that Clint has counted, and each time has been replaced by no less than five armed guards, all with their guns trained on Clint. Honestly, as flattered as Clint is, he’s pretty sure it’s overkill. Although maybe it’s Bucky who should be flattered.

_Shame he doesn’t have an ego to flatter, _Clint thinks, and then promptly despises himself for a few moments.

He glances up guilty at that impassive, lonely face watching him. He thinks about ‘Tasha, the flat tarmac of her voice, curled up on their beaten-up couch at home, fingers in the sleeves of the hoodie she insists was hers first.

_He was gone, just gone. I never believed in ghosts, but. Maybe I should._

He looks up at the dead man’s face in front of him, cold blue eyes, long hair that hides the all too memorable cut of his cheekbones and jawline. He thinks about how much he’s always believed in ghosts.

Stella, in the circus, who used to cut his hair for him and taught him most of his Polish and even gave him one of her sweaters when his got ripped by the Swordsman’s knives. She said, _People have a way of coming back, Clinton. Usually, it’s the ones we hoped would stay away, but sometimes, sometimes it’s the ones we pray for in our souls._

Clint looks at Bucky Barnes’ face, and thinks about Natasha’s, and even about Steve Rogers, too. About the corn shear swipe of Stella’s scissors catching in his hair, delicate around the shapes of his damaged ears, the stroke of her thumb over their scars. She was the only one he’d allow that close, those days. Not even Jacques, not even Barney.

Now, ears prickling in the silence, cold and clammy, with a ghost before him, ghosts behind him in his wake, Clint whispers.

“Remember,” he whispers into the metal cut of his tongue, teeth scraping over the steel sheet.

The fit of her jaw in the cup of his hand; the draw of the first arrow he ever held in his child-hands. The sting of air on his neck. Her ribs expanding with every breath, slotted alongside his own, Adam’s for Eve’s. He’d give her all of them, if she wanted.

“Remember,” he whispers, and he means it.

He’s talking to himself. But maybe, just maybe, he’s talking to Bucky, too.

“Well then, Hawkeye,” the Doc says, holding something black and shapeless, dangling it off her index finger. At least, that’s what her mouth shapes imply. “I need you –”

But the rest is lost to context, and to dizzy blinks, and to the look on the Winter Soldier’s face as he watches.

_Gonna hood you, little hawk, _Rumlow had taunted when Clint woke up in a jet over the Atlantic.

It locks over his throat, chokehold, the hood they shove over his head, and the oxygen it lets in – dust, dry, volcanic – doesn’t make up for the sheer, terrifying blindness that engulfs him.

_2012/06/12 WASHINGTON POST PAGE ONE_  
_FOUR CHARGED IN BARTON HOUSE FIRE  
_ _Four men have been charged with multiple offences including arson and attempted murder following the attack on the family home of FBI Agent Charles Bernard “Barney” Barton. Martin Rowles, Eric Carruthers, Sam White and James Newton were taken into custody last night following an anonymous tip to the Washington Police Department. This comes less than a week after Agent Barton was admitted to an undisclosed medical facility, along with his eldest child, following a home invasion that culminated in a catastrophic fire. Barton’s wife, Laura, and their two youngest children were reportedly treated for minor injuries and smoke inhalation and are believed to have been moved into Witness Protection. While no reason for the incident has yet been officially released, it seems more than likely this attack was a targeted act of vigilante justice. Four days before the violent home invasion, documents uncovered by the website Wikileaks revealed Agent Barton’s identity as the older brother of Clinton Francis Barton, the terrorist who escaped custody following the attack on New York City last month. Agent Charles Barton had refused to comment when approached by the press following the leak. cont. p4_

**a cold prison cell, probably europe**

**hawkeye**

The thing about being under Loki’s control was, it was a lot like being underwater. Like tipping over the edge of a waterfall, the first freefall plunge. After that, it was simply a matter of fighting the current. Sometimes his metaphorical flailing arms would get tired, resulting in large portions of thieved iridium and a blasted open Helicarrier engine. Other times, though, he could swim, and Jesus he _did, _and that’s pretty much why most of his arrows didn’t hit anything vital.

The thing about HYDRA having Loki’s deathstick is, they don’t really know what they’re doing with it. They knock Clint in the chest, and it’s the freefall all over again, the rush of water and air as he topples over the waterfall’s edge.

Then, he gets his balance back.

He hasn’t actually managed to kill anybody since that first time, but there have been a couple of close calls, and at least six broken bones. It’s like an adrenaline boost and a sedative in one.

There’s the wash of blue chill, settling in his bones, the angry pounding of his heart, the muddle of confusion, and then a blind moment of sheer panic that starts with the memory of Natasha’s hand cradling the bruise she’d whacked into his head and ends with the Winter Soldier pinning him to the ground.

“Aren’t you bored of this yet, kiddo?” he asks Barnes, once, before they open the cage to yank him back into his chains.

Barnes’ face is close, close enough that maybe with a spot of luck, Clint could break his nose with his forehead.

Only, Barnes is being so careful, his grip a fraction shy of bruising, his legs locked above Clint’s knees to keep from shattering his kneecaps. Barnes could cripple him effortlessly, and instead, he’s holding back, in a way that must take more effort than the brutal force his weapon of a body is inclined towards.

Barnes rears back an inch. Finds Clint’s eyes, locks onto them. Blue, blue, blue.

For one impossible moment, he opens his mouth, and looks something akin to astonished.

Licks his lips and says something in response, that sounds a lot like a crackle of: “Did it hurt?”

Clint blinks, feeling the tight pinch of Barnes’ metal arm, and the way he could crush Clint’s femurs if he wanted with just a bit more weight. The dull pain in the back of his head from meeting the floor and the itch of the spot in his chest where the spear had touched him.

Did it hurt?

“You didn’t hurt me,” he says, without quite meaning to.

Lay the money down on Clint Barton’s grave. He would swear with his last breath, the Winter Soldier looked relieved.

**brooklyn, new york**

**clint**

Natasha had been there, right beside him, when Clint finally woke up to a world of half-hum, indistinct sounds.

They had never been perfect, his damn ears. Not since his dad’s best left hook, when his Mom was fixing up the drinks and Barney was on the other side of the room. His right ear had never worked so good after that, certainly not good enough for the military. Even his left never got through a whole winter without an infection.

It happened in Miskolc.

Three days in Budapest living the five-star lap of luxury, infiltrating a high stakes poker run fronting an arms buy-in deep enough to service the entire country’s army, only for their exfil to be interrupted by a cocky, two-faced Interpol agent, two unpleasant nights sleeping under a bridge and three explosions.

It was the third of the three that Clint caught the best of. Aided by a resonating underground chamber and the last sonic arrow he ever fired from his bow, he felt it, the rupture. He felt the burn of hot blood filling up his ears and he felt her hand cupping the back of his neck, holding him upright as he choked out the vomit clogging his throat.

She was there when he blacked out and she was there when he woke up.

Natasha.

It was her face that he saw, through a gum glaze of wet. Her fingers holding his hands away from his face as he tried to reach for his ears. The scent of her skin and her perfume in his nose as he breathed, hard, fast. Her name vibrating in his throat, in a voice he couldn’t hear.

Her mouth moving, saying things he couldn’t understand.

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

The asset is screaming.

The Soldier has been tasked with another round of weeding out the sloppy fighters. It’s an easy task, for all the sweat and blood that slicks up the mats of the training floor. None of it is the Soldier’s, anyway. He’s not supposed to actively harm the guards in training, not in any meaningful way.

He’s already on his second strike for broken bones.

Halford probably wouldn’t give a damn. Unfortunately, Halford is busy right now, and has thus handed over monopoly of the Soldier’s time to Meisner.

Meisner is always looking to better his agents, so it’s unsurprising he’d have the Soldier in the fighting ring.

It is the same, whatever base they find themselves in. The piss sweat scent of fear and bruises clotting under skin. A current of relentless fear and excitement stirring the breathless room. They all fight, the ones that are terrified and the ones that think they’ve got something worth proving. They all fight, and so does the Soldier.

Meisner seems particularly keen today, almost gleeful, and so hasn’t even done anything about the two broken bones the Soldier has wrongfully inflicted, beyond side-eyeing the Soldier where he stands. And, somewhere else in the fortress, the asset is screaming.

It seems likely that the Soldier is the only one who can hear as much. Nobody had so much as flinched when it started up several hours ago, nor had they reacted to his colourful choice of expletives that appeared to be more generally directed towards HYDRA than anybody specific.

It’s unclear, separated by multiple rooms and brick walls as they are, what exactly has prompted this outburst. The only words beyond harsh indictments of people’s mothers that have been at all distinguishable is the demand to _“get it out!”_

Whatever they have put in, it does not sound pleasant.

The Soldier is – confused, to say the least. There is an uncomfortable feeling in his gut that spikes every time the screaming starts up again. It’s nothing he has not heard before, has not caused before, and yet, for some disconcerting reason, this sound. It’s almost distracting.

In fact, it’s more than likely the case of that broken arm and fractured knee. The Soldier is distracted.

Perhaps it is a side effect of the close scrutiny the Soldier has been paying to the asset, attuning him to the man. It’s rare for the Soldier to look at any one person for such lengths of time. Rarer still, for the person to be looking back.

_“Please!” _the asset is screaming, somewhere unreachable, hoarser now, he’s damaging his throat. _“Fuck you please you bitch you bitch get it out fuck you please –”_

The Soldier is struck momentarily by a strange, unwelcome urge to shut the asset up. To cover his face and pull out his lungs. To comfort him. To explain: _It doesn’t work like that. It never works. Stop trying._

The seventeenth agent steps into the ring, with fists the Soldier could break with his forehead. Meisner is saying something encouraging and the Soldier stands to attention, ready to fend off the attack.

The agent is afraid. Insensible and weak. Fear is not a helpful response, it makes fists too tight, makes shots too wide, makes breaths too short. This agent is carrying the tension of a brick wall in his shoulders and his back. If he is not careful, the Soldier will accidentally break another bone, probably the man’s spine.

“Soldat,” Meisner says, once, like the ricochet of a bullet.

The Soldier moves, and the man’s bruises shine.

Somewhere across the compound, the asset goes quiet.

**a dream**

The Soldier dreams in cold tones. It is always the same. He is standing in a small room, which has a small bed and a small chair and a small table. There’s a window above the bed, grubby with frost. Somebody says: _At ease, Soldier. _Only, it rides a wave of laughter. Then he is very warm, stiflingly warm, and there is mud and blood on the upturned sheets of the bed, and the chair is broken and the table is scarred with knife marks. The Soldier looks out of the window. Fuzzy, through the ice bitten glass, he sees the outline of a hand pressing up against it.

He wakes up, and he forgets.

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

Two days and forty-six pride bruised agents later, Halford comes back to fetch the Soldier.

He walks straight to her, a magnet drawn northwards ad she smiles around him at Meisner, who is a little angrier at those broken bones now. It’s too late for him to do anything about it, though, because the Soldier is safely back under Halford’s jurisdiction as soon as she walks in the room.

There are ways, the Soldier has found, to navigate these things. The difference between necessary punishment and irritating aggravation is both subtle and distinct, and the Soldier knows which sides of the line Halford and Meisner work from.

“If you kept a tighter leash on him –” Meisner says, which is a poor enough accusation to fling in Halford’s vicinity.

His real downfall, however, is pointing his index finger in her face.

“Soldat,” she says in that needle-sharp voice, and the Soldier reaches with the left hand.

Meisner screams louder than is really merited for a broken finger, cradling his hand to his chest as he retreats a step, wounded in his voice and his face. The Soldier does not understand why agents so often insist on learning these lessons first-hand for themselves. Why they can’t learn second-hand from the lessons of others.

“Will that be all, Meisner?” Halford asks in a pleasant voice, before turning on her heel and stalking away.

The Soldier follows.

She leads him back to the lab with the cage, where three technicians are at their own desks hard at work. Only one of them looks up at their entry, the Finnish one. Name unimportant, although If he lasts n Halford’s team much longer the Soldier might need it.

He shoots a glance to the other side of the room, which is around about when the Soldier smells the blood.

He turns his head instinctively, still half a step behind and left to Halford, who appears indifferent to the sorry creature tied to the cot on the other side of the bars. His wrists and ankles have been shackled to the frame, while his head, cushioned, elevated – bloody. There are two deep wounds on either side of his head, a little behind his ears.

The asset appears to be unconscious, or close to it. His eyes are slits of stung blue, his mouth open, raking in breaths so laboured they seem to rattle like coins in his chest.

“We should have waited,” the Finnish man says.

Halford scoffs loudly, gesturing the soldier to a metal folding chair.

He sits, and when she clicks her finger he offer up the left arm.

“Other one,” she snaps, and the Soldier complies, confused. She is rarely interested in the right one.

As she taps the vein in the elbow, she looks briefly at the asset in the cage.

“He’s not making anymore escape attempts anytime soon.”

“He’s not doing anything any time soon,” the Finnish man corrects her, at the risk of his life. He’s either very stupid, or he knows he’s too valuable to be permanently removed the way his predecessors were. “We’ve totally incapacitated him.”

“Really?” Halford asks, arching her brows mockingly as she draws a vial of blood from the right arm.

The Soldier watches the thick, dark blood fil up the blue-capped tube. He wonders how much of it he’d have to lose, in order to die. Then, he wonders why he’d think that at all.

“I’d say we’ve done some home improvements,” Halford continues.

She pulls the needle out of the arm, puts a piece of cotton on the bubble of blood and folds the arm to hold it there. Across the tables, one of the technicians snickers.

“What if we gave Barton –”

“Doesn’t work,” a voice says, and the Finnish man huffs in response.

When the Soldier looks up, they’re all eyeing the vial of blood. The Finnish man looks to Halford for confirmation and she nods forlornly in response.

“Zola’s serum is present but not active in the red and white blood cells. Giving somebody else the Soldier’s blood is like giving them at best weak ibuprofen, or at worst out-of-date antibiotics.”

The Finnish man looks at the Solder, who turns to look at his bent elbow. He imagines the cotton soaking up the droplets of blood.

Across the room, the asset makes a pale, hastily cut off keening sound.

“What about the bone marrow?” the Finnish man asks.

Halford pauses, just as she takes hold of the Soldier’s wrist. Her skin is a little rough, but warm, warm enough he can nearly feel the pulse of her heartbeat through her fingertips. He ignores an abrupt, alien urge to take her wrist in return.

“A transplant?” Halford asks, pulling the Soldier’s arm to extend and plucking the cotton ball off his elbow with tweezers. She stares at the flesh arm in her grip as if seeing it for the first time.

“Exactly,” the Finnish man says. “Would that not generate stronger blood than a simple transfusion?”

When Halford lets go, the Soldier returns his arm to his lap reluctantly, and looks back over at the asset. His face is shiny with sweat and his head wounds – the Soldier’s eyes widen. There’s something glinting in the open gap in his scalp, around the shell curl of his blister red left ear.

He remembers the asset’s screams – _Get it out! – _and he wonders.

He wonders.

“Kapanen,” Halford says, a breath of awe that the Soldier feels at the hairline. “You’re a fucking genius.”

It’s painful.

It’s _painful._

Painful in a different way to other things, other things like bullets, like burns, like the Chair, like faulty wires in the metal arm that tug on all the wrong bits.

“Can’t we knock him out?” someone yells as the Soldier bucks hard against restraints and bucks harder against orders to hold still, hold _still, _he’s in for it so bad when this is over, can’t obey, can’t hold _still._

“Nothing keeps him down long enough,” she says.

Halford, maybe, he hopes, hopes she’s there, hopes she knows he’s trying, trying so hard to hold _still._

It hurts.

He tries to hold still, while they turn his bones inside out.

**_1945 – 02 – 03_**  
** TELEGRAM A.G BASE – C.A.V.E.**  
** архив (archive)**  
_PAKET ERHALTEN STOPP BESCH__Ä__DIGT STOPP ZUS__Ä__TZLICHE TEILE ERFORDERLICH STOPP SCHNEESTURM STOPP VERZ__Ö__GERUNGEN SIND ZU ERWARTEN STOPP_  
(PACKAGE RECEIVED STOP DAMAGED STOP ADDITIONAL PARTS REQUIRED STOP BLIZZARD STOP DELAYS EXPECTED STOP)

**крио**

**солдат**

_(cryo)_

_(soldier)_

“We’ll have a mission for you soon, Soldier. For now, you must rest.”

Like every time before, Halford’s eyes are troubled as she stands next to the open chamber. Not for the first time, the Soldier tries to think of something comforting to say, but he has no idea what that would sound like.

He steps into the cylinder, as lab techs bustle and Halford’s eyes refuse to leave his face.

_Soon _is a relative term, in these liminal moments.

Soon is four days, and it is also four years.

The Soldier closes his eyes, Halford’s face burnt into his retinas.

He dreams, but he won’t remember when he wakes.

**a memory, or a fantasy**

“Hey,” the blond man says without looking up from his sketchbook.

He’s sitting on a beaten up sofa, wrapped up in several bulky layers of clothing. The only sounds in the apartment, the scratching of his pencil and the rattle of his wet breaths in his lungs. His cheeks are flushed with the early stages of fever, making his eyes bright as a painted doll’s.

His book rests on his bent knees, and his hair is greasy with sweat that’s peppering his brow and cheekbones.

Eventually, the blond man looks up, and his tongue wets his dry lips. Lingers between his teeth.

“You look exhausted,” he says, as if he is not sleep deprivation incarnate.

The moment he stops drawing, a shiver takes command of his arms and he sinks deeper into his curled form. When he bows his head, several dark gold strands fall over his forehead. His eyebrows twitch and his nose scrunches up, displeased and uncomfortable.

“Come here,” he says, and he raises his pencil to beckon with. “I’ll take care a you.”

He pulls a face, mouth twisting, and his eyes, they’re so blue.

“Don’ laugh,” he says. “I can take care a you, too, y’know.”

His tongue dips back over his lower lip, and his blinks are languid. Under the nib of his pencil, the page is taken up with a line of pigeons littering a telegraph pole. He smells of damp sweat and coffee and suspiciously like rain.

He says: “You can’t lock me in here forever.”

Then, hoarsely: “Yeah, pretty like one, too.”

His mouth quirks upwards in a smile, that tastes of salt and sunshine.

**corner of hell, anywhere**

**hawkeye**

Barnes is gone.

Clint has no idea where. Clint has no idea about anything anymore except for this: They put wires in his head, and now, he can hear things.

He can _hear things._

Not just things, not just sounds. He can hear the precise words of four different people whispering on the other side of the room. He can hear mice scurrying under the brickwork. He can hear bugs scuttling on the ground.

He can hear, perfectly, more than perfectly, and it might just be the worst thing that has ever happened to him.

It doesn’t hurt anymore. Maybe that’s the kicker keeping his thoughts unwrapped, entangled, so thorny. There’s metal embedded in his skull, he’s got wires in his goddamn ear yet it doesn’t hurt anymore. Why doesn’t it _hurt?_

Has he been here so long? Months, surely. Weeks at the very least, for the scarring and the stabilising. He should be in agony. He shouldn’t be able to move for the butchering of his brain, his ears, fuck, _his ears._

He remembers, clear as anything with his own two eyes to this very day he remembers, Natasha, his ‘Tasha. The first time she cupped her hands over his ears without getting a flinch in response. Her smile, trying for smug but he saw it, awestruck, and happy. Her happiness, and his.

It doesn’t hurt. That’s the kicker.

It doesn’t hurt and it never stops. It’s relentless. Noise, sound, everything, it’s always there.

He never knew he’d miss the act of turning off those hearing aids but Christ does he want to turn off the world right now. Unpluck all sounds from his ears, return to the normal he cultivated for himself, he was happy, he was fine, fixed, fucking _fixed _by fucking _HYDRA._

Clint holds his breath inside his chest and stares out at the to and fro of the room beyond the crosshatch bars of his cage and he wonders, really wonders…

Where the hell is Barnes?

He’s wondering lots of things, but in the end, worrying in vague notions of the torture and coercion of another human being is still a hell of a lot easier to handle than thinking about any possible advancements they’ve made with Loki’s death stick of destiny. Wallowing in Barnes’ current misery remains preferable to anticipating his own potential future misery.

_Fixed._

This isn’t fixed, this is agony.

Clint lies back on the cot, which he has earned the right to not be tied to by way of not screaming himself hoarse every night. In fact, he hasn’t been tied up at all in a few days now, judging by the number of all-purpose protein shakes that have been shoved through the letterbox gap.

He puts his hands tenderly on the hairless spaces where they drilled him into something better.

How in God’s name has it healed so well?

He runs a finger over the leathery scars of his scalp, knitting him whole again.

It feels, if he’s honest with himself, years recovered. Christ, he hopes it’s not been years. What was it the brunette bitch had said? _Defected._

Was that the WSC? Was that Fury?

Was it Coulson?

It wasn’t Natasha, he knows that much. And if Captain Red White And Blue could trust him on Natasha’s word to begin with, Clint likes to think that she could convince the good Captain of his innocence a second time. Has she given up on him yet?

_NO! _his mind shouts back, a chemical reaction in his overloaded brain. No, she hasn’t, she won’t. He wouldn’t and neither would she.

Clint closes his eyes and his mouth and he tries to hold in all the sounds trapped between his teeth, between his ears. He knows her, he _knows _her.

She won’t give up. Across the room, the brunette bitch, Doctor Halford, asks a question about data expediency. Clint looks across to the source of the noise, and listens, really listens, so intently he can hear her heartbeat inside his own.

No. Natasha won’t give up. Neither will Clint.

“Hello, Hawkeye,” she says, same as always.

It’s the smile that does it, Clint thinks. That warm, trusting smile that belies the callouses that lie like scales over her eyes. As if she were blind to everything she did not wish to see. She’s narrow, is the thing. In her gaze, her face, her hands, her waist.

She’s brought a little wooden stool with her this time. Put it down on the other side of his cage bars, just close enough that Clint reckons if he shoved his arm through the bars, his fingertips would brush her kneecap and no more.

He hates the way she says his name, the way little children talk about puppies and ponies, the way mothers and fathers talk about their newborns.

Her voice is perfectly clear, now. Every tremor and cadence, the crispness of her consonants and the roundness of her vowels, unhindered by troublesome ears and ever-present barrier of technology that has been his constant companion all these years. It makes it hard to hide the flinch.

Harder still, to look upon: the greenness of her eyes.

“Hello, dear,” Clint replies with a long, large smile.

“My name is Charlotta Halford,” she says, and he can detect the faint trace of an accent in her mouth around her name. He knows her type, knows her entire life, those English boarding schools and summers at the coast and sneaking into her father’s office and elocution lessons from her mother and all the moments in between; knows everything he needs to in those five simple syllables.

It’s the last five syllables he needs to hear to know, in the last fragments of his heart, that she will kill him before she lets him crawl out of here of his own volition. She’d burn this entire castle down with him and all her beloved equipment inside it.

“I’m sure you have lots of questions,” Halford says, nodding sympathetically, so that her side bangs bounce a little over her forehead.

Clint doesn’t nod. He’d like to turn his head, and go right on back to pretending to sleep. But Charlotta Halford, sitting so close, it feels the way it used to when there was still a lion in the circus, and Clint would sit near him, near enough to smell the raw meat in his gums and hear the rumble of his breaths. He knows better than to close his eyes.

“I’d have thought you’d have a few for me,” he replies in a forcibly even tone.

Halford folds her forearms and rests them on her knees, bringing her just a bit closer. There’s a cluster of freckles near her mouth, a tiny constellation that Clint wants to cave in with his thumbs alone.

“I don’t need to ask you anything about SHIELD, Hawkeye,” Halford replies. “We’ve got Rumlow for that, and plenty of others, too.”

Clint remembers, again, and again and again, standing in Fury’s office, next to Natasha, a foot in front of Brock Rumlow and his ALPHAs, and standing next to Fury’s desk, the smart suited Alexander Pierce. His throat feels stripped, his stomach coiling, full of adders.

“I don’t need you for what you know,” Halford continues. “I need you for what you can do.”

“Ain’t you already got the sharpest shooter in the whole US army?” Clint bites back, before he can hold it in, and it scalds his tongue like boiling water, his own voice, unrecognisable in his mangled head. He winces at himself, and at Halford’s indulgent grin.

“You’re really taking this quite personally, Hawkeye,” Halford comments with idle enjoyment.

He sure as shit is. Doesn’t have it in him to be anything other than livid and pained, doesn’t have it in him to restrain the hate.

“Here’s the thing. You’ve seen what we can do, to make him comply. To make you comply. It isn’t pleasant, but it’s necessary.”

Clint raises his eyebrows politely, wondering if he’d have been able to pick up the threadiness of her voice before, when he didn’t have metal jags inside his skull. Subconsciously, his fingers go up towards his head, tracing the lines of his scalp that have been seared over, ribbed the way the scars on his back from ten years ago are, too.

One of the guards to Halford’s left, the twitchiest of the bunch, shifts his weight. Clint holds back from outright rolling his eyes.

Instead, he looks at her, at Charlotta Halford, with her nasty green eyes and soft freckly mouth. With her accent she can’t quite be rid of and her hands that are never quite still. Dangerous, the way water is dangerous when it appears to be shallow and is not. Dangerous, the way the sad slope of her eyebrows is almost believable.

He thinks about Bucky Barnes, muzzled by a mask, or smacked across the face, or sitting himself primly in a torture chair to be strapped down and driven outside himself. The way his eyes always know where she is in the room.

Dangerous, the way she keeps the loyalty of the Winter Soldier tucked to her breast alongside her beating, blackrot heart.

“You haven’t tied me back down,” Clint says, very slowly, half as curious as he feels. He runs a finger over the seam of his skull, where inside, he is changed already.

Halford nods, unhelpful, nearly indifferent. As if it is a natural thing, to leave him unguarded when she can no longer hang one of his senses over him as a gift, and a curse. He does not understand why that would be.

She says, “I’ll do you precisely one favour, Hawkeye. Whatever it is you want, if it’s within my power, I will do it.”

Clint has been made more false promises than he cares to recall. Little promises and big promises, he’s been handed the word of far better folk than this woman, and been left wanting. Yet her anomalous offer, it’s more tempting than anything he’s ever heard, because he knows, and maybe so does she already. He knows what he would ask for, if he could.

“Then what?” he asks.

Halford sits up, brushes imaginary dust from her knees and then her fingertips.

Clint rises up to his elbows, and the guards make restless movements with their guns.

It is, Clint realises, the way they move when they are within reach of the Winter Soldier.

“Then what?” he asks again, harder this time, through teeth that are clenched together hard enough to ring inside his head.

Halford glances at the guard nearest her, gestures with a hand, and he leaves with a grudging nod. She looks at Clint with honest green eyes, and Clint ignores the ache inside his chest.

“Then I’m going to take everything from you,” Halford replies. “And then you won’t remember, anyway. Clint Barton will be gone. It seems – unsportsmanlike, not to offer you one last act in the world.”

Clint laughs, a loud sound, the loudest he’s made in a while and it spins in his ears with a sting. He can feel it in his throat, scraping out of him, and over her.

“What favour did you do your Soldier, before you took everything from him?” he asks, striking wildly towards spite.

Only, she cocks her head, with a downturned mouth.

“That was before my time,” she says, truthfully.

She doesn’t need to say, _before I was born, _but Clint hears it as if alongside outside sounds they had forced upon him outside thoughts, as well. It is a sudden, striking thing. Clint understands – he _understands, _for the first time – that he’s been thinking about James Buchanan Barnes the way he had thought about Steven Grant Rogers.

_What a long time to be gone, what a long time to lose, _he’d thought with bruised peach sympathy, when they dug him out of the ice.

Yet that is not the case, here, not for Bucky Barnes. It is not seventy years asleep, adrift, afar.

It is seventy years without personhood, without conscience, the only tender hand the one holding his leash.

_What a long time to be this._

“What would you have done?” he asks, that gifted curse, to hear the wobble trapped inside his throat.

Halford looks, for one moment, terribly angry. It sits comfortably on her face, as if her bones were built for it.

“I’m doing him a favour, right now,” she says. “Get some sleep, Hawkeye. I’m going to be away, for a few days. Be good for Doctor Kapanen. I’ll see you soon.”

She turns away, and there’s something in her eyes that vanishes the moment she looks away, one final glimpse that Clint can see before she has turned her back. Some semblance of a person, the light where hope resides. It blinks out of the green, and the shade of green in her gaze is, quite suddenly, all wrong.

Clint watches her leave, shifting back down to lie flat, his palms cupping the back of his head. He smiles at the guards as they shift around, all eyes on him, all hands on their weapons. Then he shuts his eyes.

He wakes up, briefly, when the lights are as close to off as they ever get. When the sounds of shouting emerge from the gloom of the distance side of the castle. When the iridescent gleam of Loki’s spear washes over the floor.

He remembers, unexpectedly, that he had had a plan at some point.

He presses his tongue against his teeth, biting just enough to feel it. Turns his head an inch, to feel each bone in his neck.

He was going to kill himself, wasn’t he?

It doesn’t feel very important, anymore.

**manhattan, new york**

**black widow**

“Again,” she says, and this time JARVIS doesn’t hesitate.

The hologram resets, lopsided, because instead of the usual 360° camera angles to build from, there is only one beaten up security cam to cover the entire street.

This time, she stands beside Fowler, on her left-hand side. Fowler’s troubled brow is paused at a deep crinkle, pinched as she stares at something the cameras haven’t caught. Natasha gives the scene a sweeping look, over the rubble and the cracks and the holographic figures littering the scene. By now, she could probably place each rock individually in its place.

_“Agent Romanoff?” _JARVIS asks, when the moment stretches too long.

Natasha blinks, her fingernails scooping into her palm.

“Play.”

_Smoke rises from the crumpled nose of a baby blue Fiat. A young man and woman duck out from beneath the shelter of a half-torn shop front, glass in their hair and shaking out of their clothes as they scuttle towards a beckoning police officer._

_“We have two more ambulances waiting on the other side of the barrier. Bellevue isn’t too crowded yet – we can send them there.”_

_Agent Kamil points towards a blockade lined with NYPD vehicles. Behind her, a man holds a small child, blood on his face and the girl tucked secretive into his neck. His hand runs up and down her back in a soothing rhythm, yet he doesn’t move._

_“Fowler, when your team reports back, we need a proper sweep of these two upper floors,” Sitwell says, a double finger point towards the building behind them both._

_Fowler twists her neck, steps a pivot towards the west side of the street to look in the direction of Sitwell’s attention._

“Pause,” Natasha says.

The hologram pauses, at the same moment. Kamil’s pointing arm reaching towards the police blockade, and the hidden ambulances beyond it, out of reach. Sitwell reaching to the unsearched building, Fowler craning to look as well.

“This is it,” she says, very quietly, staring over the bright blue shimmer of Fowler’s shoulder. “This is the only moment where all of them are looking away.”

She turns back to look in the opposite direction to the three agents.

Two feet out of the camera’s range, there’s a fourth agent, holding a cocker spaniel. She can still see him, his fingers buried in the silk of the dog’s ears. His blond hair dusty, stuck to his temples with sweat and blood. His eyes heavy and downturned, purpled by sleepless violence, and his knuckles scraped raw.

It’s barely five seconds of distraction. It’s not enough _time. _Not half enough time to grab an Agent, to grab _Clint. _Even a worn out, beaten down Clint is better than that. Even a Clint distracted by a fucking dog can last more than five seconds.

“JARVIS,” Natasha says. “Again.”

_“Agent Romanoff,” _JARVIS replies.

Natasha glares at the floor.

“JARVIS –”

_“Agent Romanoff, it’s within my protocols to inform you that you are reaching the upper limits of Mr Stark’s designated time limit inside a workshop without a break.”_

Reluctant as she is to admit to it, she very much does not want to ever be compared to Tony Stark ever again, and it’s enough to give her pause.

She stares at the flickering white blue hologram’s edge, cutting off in the road, the bent shape of a lamppost and upturned contents of a trashcan. To the edge, where Clint’s feet should be, where he sat, where she left him.

Before she can voice anything suitably furious in retaliation, there’s the hum of a door opening behind her. She turns on a sharp heel to see Steve Rogers in the doorway, his hands tucked around his ribcage, arms folded over his chest. It might look disapproving, the way he leans into the doorway and stares at her, if it weren’t for the utter lack of it in his face.

Steve Rogers, Natasha has found, is a lousy liar. It’s something in that tender-hearted earnestness. His all-American goodness and his steely courage.

“JARVIS telling tales again?” Natasha asks, walking out of the hologram as it flickers through her, cuts of green and violet.

Steve’s mouth tugs upwards, and it’s one of those sad smiles. Natasha recognises them from a different face. Several different faces. She wonders if he knows, if he knows how much he looks like every other weary soldier, full to the brim with warfare.

She wonders if that was perhaps the unplanned, necessary point of somebody like Captain America.

“I can count mealtimes all by myself, you know,” he tells her.

That sounds a little more judgy than his eyes imply. Natasha shrugs a solitary shoulder.

“Starting to lose my appetite, getting fed on all this unchallenged hypocrisy,” she replies, spinning back to the room at large, Steve’s outline a lingering shadow in the corner of her eye.

Steve takes a step forward, closer into view, closer to the scene of the wreckage that JARVIS has reset, despite his impending protocols.

“Found anything yet?” he asks.

Natasha looks over the scene, at Fowler’s crumpled brow and Sitwell adjusting his glasses and Kamil reaching to beckon.

“A five second window,” she says.

She walks around the perimeter, coming naturally to the place her feet are dragged to. She looks at the scene, crouches downwards, until she is looking at it from over the invisible line of Clint’s shoulder. If she were to reach out, she could drag her hands through his hair, could lean forward to whisper in his ear, _Come with me, Don’t stay here, _the way she should have done weeks ago.

“That’s not long to grab Hawkeye unnoticed,” Steve says.

Natasha turns her head. He’s knelt down, too, almost exactly where, a few minutes from the start of the video, they’ll find a dead dog and an empty quiver. She looks at his frown, and at the way his hands have loosely clasped at his knee. He could be mistaken for a praying man, like this.

“But it’s long enough for one man to murder a dog and sneak away,” she says, her teeth nipping at the edges of her tongue. Her mouth is wet with the taste of it, and her cheekbones feel heavy in her face.

At her words, Steve turns to her. Searches her face openly, brazenly, with such intent she might mistake it for attraction, if she wasn’t intimately familiar with the way a man with intentions looks at a face he wants for. Steve just looks, looks the way he looks at the open pages of books and the fine lines of paintings and out the window every morning as he drinks his coffee standing up.

He reaches, very slowly, projecting every thought on his lousy liar’s face, until he’s holding her shoulder.

If the hologram stretched far enough to show Clint, Steve would be reaching right through him.

“Your word was enough the first time,” he tells her, in his wholesome Captain’s voice, every bit a commander, every bit a frightened kid from Brooklyn. “It’s enough now, too. If you say he was taken, then he was taken.”

Natasha nods, just the once. She isn’t going to waste her breath disbelieving him, or otherwise.

When Steve looks back up to the hologram, his eyes widen. He pulls back in his kneel, head tilting.

“JARVIS,” he says, “Could you play the scene again?”

Natasha doesn’t think the AI is programmed to sigh, but she is pretty confident the delay between instruction and action is the equivalent.

The scene resumes.

_Smoke rises from the crumpled nose of a baby blue Fiat. A young man and woman duck out from beneath the shelter of a half-torn shop front, glass in their hair and shaking out of their clothes as they scuttle towards a beckoning police officer._

_“We have two more ambulances waiting on the other side of the barrier. Bellevue isn’t too crowded yet – we can send them there.”_

_Agent Kamil points towards a blockade lined with NYPD vehicles. Behind her, a man holds a small child, blood on his face and the girl tucked secretive into his neck. His hand runs up and down her back in a soothing rhythm, yet he doesn’t move._

_“Fowler, when your team reports back, we need a proper sweep of these two upper floors,” Sitwell says, a double finger point towards the building behind them both._

_Fowler twists her neck, steps a pivot towards the west side of the street to look in the direction of Sitwell’s attention._

_Across the road, two kids stand in front of a woman who is clasping their shoulders, pulling them towards her as they shiver and huddle. A car rolls through the crowd, inching over the rubble of the concrete, all the windows smashed inwards, shards of glittered teeth clinging to the frames._

_Kamil steps towards two junior agents who are clutching their radios like lifelines, their faces upturned to the skies._

_Fowler reaches for her earpiece. Sitwell –_

“Pause.”

Steve stands up as the frame freezes, and the urgency of his movement pulls Natasha upwards too.

“What do you see?” she asks, because it is not an idle turn that drags Steve into the hologram.

Steve points to Kamil.

“Look,” he says, and Natasha searches the back of Kamil’s head, the two distracted juniors. “Behind her.”

Natasha moves her attention to the man standing on the other side of Agent Kamil. He has one arm wrapped around the little girl’s legs, holding her close to his chest. The other is cupping her upper back, cradling her as he looks down the street, towards the blockade.

“The man?” Then, even as Steve opens his mouth. “The girl.”

She sees it, for the first time. Standing where she should have been in real time, all along, she sees it. The little girl, tucked safe against the man’s chest and side. Her head to his neck and her face, turned outwards. Looking past the shielding hands, past Kamil, past the wreckage.

Looking directly at where Natasha now stands. At the place where Clint Barton sat, holding his therapy dog, cleaning the blood from her ears.

“Do you think she saw it?” Steve asks in a voice that knows the answer.

Beneath the cool veneer of the anger she’s laced over hidden wounds, Natasha feels a hollow opening in her chest. A cavernous, terrible hope.

“We need to find out who she is,” she says, sharper than she means, louder than she dares. “JARVIS, I need you to run facial recognition on this man, and this girl.”

She strides to the figures, indicating them with a sharp jab of her finger.

_“That will require approval from Mr Stark, Agent Romanoff.”_

“Doesn’t Tony need approval from someone else before he can do that?” Steve asks, frowning the way he only ever seems to when questioning Tony Stark’s judgement. It’s a look Natasha is already more than used to.

“You mean like someone like Fury?” she asks, just to see the twitch in Steve’s clenched jaw.

“Point,” he replies with a tilt of his head. “JARVIS, can you call Tony down here?”

_“I have informed him that he is needed.”_

“He does so love to be needed,” Natasha mutters under her breath, and ignores the cut of blue when Steve glances at her. Even at her best, she’s never been accused of being kind, and she is far from her best, has not been further in years.

Steve moves his hand vaguely in the space between them, and only takes her shoulder because she allows it for a second time. His touch is strong, and uncomfortably warm, and the closest thing to tenderness she can bear.

“We’ll find him,” he says, assured and strong.

Natasha smiles coldly up at him, standing close, like he’s a friend.

“They’re still dragging the Hudson for wreckage,” she reminds him, and when he lets go of her too hastily, her teeth cut into her tongue. She swallows down the blood, and looks away, before his stare can burn right through her face.

**the castle**

**hawkeye**

Clint gives the chain around his neck an idle tug, just to check it’s still there.

Doctor Halford holds something out, towards him, and he accepts it with both hands. Heavier than he expected, and metal, cold in his numb fingers. Old, older than one he’s held in a while. He cocks the gun, and releases it without shooting. There’s probably not any bullets in it anyway.

He looks up, into a pair of green eyes, and frowns.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”


	2. 2013 Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your lovely kudos and comments! They are so welcome and appreciated.
> 
> As before, language corrections are more than welcome (and appreciated, too).
> 
> Please heed updated tags.
> 
> LRCx

**(Part One – Watch)**

**2013**

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

This is waking up.

He claws at the vestiges of a dream he will never recall with total clarity. The sense memory of a forehead pressing hard enough against his own to leave twin bruises. There is a disorienting feeling of frost thawing itself off his bones.

His mind wakes before his body.

He listens to the reboot of his internal organs, the ferocity of the blood pumping through three of his limbs, warming him too fast, so that he feels a sharp, stinging sensation in his extremities. He is aware suddenly, from one moment to the next, of the fingernails on his right hand. The toenails on his feet. The hairs on his legs and forearms.

He is aware of his arteries and his lungs and his tongue.

His mind is awake long before his body seeks to obey.

He suppresses the instinct to scream, and remembers suddenly how he once learned not to scream.

Lying in a pit of mud, a man holding him down, pinning him into the filth, his fingers in the open wound of his chest, blood tacky between them. Remembers learning _Ssh, ssh, shut up, be quiet, be still, don’t do that, don’t._

He wakes up, and his body follows, and he doesn’t scream.

They let him out.

He steps too soon, remembers too late. Too late every time, he makes the same mistake. Steps out too soon and his knees, which have forgotten the exact weight of him while sleeping, buckle beneath his bulk. He hits the ground hard, shocked into alertness, dripping a cold sweat. Soaked.

Thinks, perhaps, he pissed on one of these floors once, dropped too fast to his knees and the urine burned painfully out of him and there was a hooting cacophony of laughter and disgust, and perhaps he had spent the rest of the day on the floor, because that is what dogs do.

He doesn’t piss on the floor this time.

He clings to the sense memory of a forehead against his own, even though he cannot ever recall being so near to a person without killing them.

“Get him up. I don’t have time for this.”

It’s a woman speaking. The woman. As familiar as a lungful of oxygen. Halford. She’s here.

He blinks at her laced boots as he is hoisted up, into a chair. The chair. Metal bites at his limbs, still sluggish, and his body wrestles weakly against something it is afraid of, something his mind cannot remember. There is a routine to these movements, muscle memory kicking in, but then, the routine breaks apart.

Something stirs in his thawing chest, slotted between his ribcage like a blade. Something feels _wrong._

Someone is missing – something is out of place – he needs – needs – _needs? ­_– he wants has never wanted but he wants now and he panics and –

He turns his head, surprised to find he can, and he sees a gigantic needle, one that he recognises, and his entire torso squirms in response without his consent. A hand takes him by the jaw, pinching so tight sharp nails cut grooves into his cheeks.

There’s blood on her fingertips that smears over his skin. He can smell it, and her antiperspirant, her skin cream, her clothes.

“You will hold still, or I will burn your other arm off your body. Do you understand me?” Halford snarls.

He looks at her startling green eyes and her grimace and he nods once. She lets go of his face, and he aches for the warmth of its return.

“Я понимаю,” he says truthfully. 

He understands every word she says, and more than that, he understands the intensity with which she means them, too. He wills his chest not to heave, and lifts his head to look left, to a cluster of white coats around a semi-tilted table.

Relief strikes him, incomprehensibly.

There’s a body on it, suspended in a spread-eagle. A man’s body, meaty with washed out muscle, a crown of gold hair on his head but for a thick silver plate above and around his ear, as if his exposed skull were made of steel.

There is something protruding from his back. A huge, spiny ridge poking out in blunt spikes from each vertebra. The man is breathing quick, shallow breaths, lips fluttering like a prayer. Bloody saliva drips out of the man’s mouth, pooling down the table and his chest. The man’s eyes are half-closed, half-blind.

As he watches, the man lashes out with his right hand, just the few inches of give his bonds allow for, and the exoskeleton of his steel spine ripples with the movements as the man takes hold of a white coat’s throat.

There’s a clattering of anxious reactions from the others but they are all far, far too late. The white coat’s windpipe is crushed. He hears it happen, the thick, deep crunch of it crumbling, caving the throat inwards.

“Keep back!” Halford bellows.

She is so angry, and he holds onto the sound of her, imagines it might have been her forehead pushing against his. She would be gentler than the others are. He has seen it. Does not require her gentility, does not deserve it, but oh, how he likes it.

He looks away from the suspended man, to Halford, to the white coat holding the syringe, the thick needle. He holds his breath, and clings to a dream he can’t remember.

_At ease, Soldier, _he hears in his intrusive thoughts, momentary and terrified, before the drill for the needle breaks through. Skin first, then bone.

“Wipe him,” Halford says, after it is done.

_“Спасибо,” _he replies with slack lips bitten to shreds, and somebody chokes on nothing somewhere near his head.

A hand carefully places a guard inside his mouth. A thumb brushes indelicately through the blood. Behind him, somebody says: “He fucking _thanked _her.”

Their companion, four steps to the left, face turned away, perhaps to a monitor or a door:

“You should’ve heard what the other one said.”

**malibu, california**

**iron man**

Tony holds his breath and stares about the bedroom. Presses his palms to his cheeks, cold and damp and when he puffs out his cheeks, he feels the stutter of his lungs pushing up into his mouth. Holds in his mind two memories, simultaneous.

The hollow gut punch of a fall from one galaxy to the next. The hollow gut punch of looking at Pepper when she thinks he can’t see her face.

It’s a disturbingly similar feeling.

He sits in the middle of the bed, legs crossed, pillows askew, and catches his breath. He looks around the dark, empty room, and ignores the flare of panic bubbling under his ribcage. Pepper’s nowhere to be seen.

It’s fine.

She’s fine.

_Tony’s _fine.

He tells himself it would not be impossible to go back to sleep. He could lie back down in these soaked sheets, fluff up his pillows and drift away. It would be fine. She would be fine. Tony would be fine.

The floor’s cold as he slides out of the bed, throwing a shirt over his clammy arms and shivering into his folded elbows as he walks barefoot through the hollow house, all the way to the one warm light spilling outwards from the kitchen.

He hears her first. Hears her voice, the way he has always heard it. Welcomes it, is warmed by it.

He stops just at the edge of the light, can see Pepper’s reflection in the large glass wall through the doorway. She’s on a stool at the island in the middle of the room, pale gold and gorgeous and slumped over a bowl of something that she’s picking at with one hand, while the other holds a phone up to her ear, her face half hidden by her hair.

_“No, it isn’t. It’s not like Dad. It’s not like that.”_

Tony watches the dip of her head, and feels an overwhelming shame he does not enjoy, yet cannot turn away from. He knows he’s putting that curve in her neck, that wrinkle in her brow. He knows she’s exhausted; he is exhausting her. He doesn’t know how to stop.

_“Mom, no. It’s not like that. I shouldn’t have said anything.”_

Pepper throws something back into a bowl – it clinks; sweets, he’s pretty sure, knows the taste of M&Ms on her mouth better than any tack matte lipstick – and pulls her hair off her face. A smile trembles through her grimace, her eyes fluttering, open and closed and open again.

_“I know what I’m doing. I always do. I promise. Tell Hannah to take care of herself, OK? I’ll come visit soon. No, I’m not. I just live here.”_

She laughs as she says it, and she shakes her head, and Tony loves her so much he still hasn’t taken a breath yet. Wants to bask in the light of her company guilt free, only he doesn’t know how anymore, or perhaps he never did.

_“I love you. Goodnight.”_

She drops the phone with a clunk, and scoops up a fistful of sweets to eat quickly, rapping her fingernails against the worktop.

Tony watches her, might’ve watched her all night, if not for a small mutter that cracks him wide open, as defenceless as he’s ever been: “I love you, too, you know.”

He blinks, and she is looking at him. Her chin tucked at her shoulder, looking at him through the window’s reflection with a wry grin and tired eyes. She holds up a bright red sweet, puts it just between her teeth and bites it in half. Smirks into it, waves him over with wiggling fingers and he is drawn in.

As he approaches, Pepper swivels on the stool, grabs his knees by her heels and pulls him towards her. Her welcoming warmth, the chocolate on her breath when she kisses him, mouth and cheek and jaw. Tony’s arms wrap around her, an instinct more than an action. When she is near, he wants to touch her. He wants to make sure.

“What are you doing up?” he asks, as if he does not know, and she laughs as if it is not insulting of him to pretend.

“Worrying about you,” she says into hollow of his neck, dry and accusing.

He winces without protest. He deserves as much.

He knows he’s driving her crazy, knows he’s driving her to get up in the middle of the night and call her mom to unleash her heartfelt fears, her _mom,_ who’s on the other side of the country and is possibly the only woman not on SHIELD’s payroll he hasn’t yet been able to charm into liking him at least a little bit.

“And here I am, up and worrying about you,” he tells her, lips against her forehead, fingers threading through her hair. She kisses his chest, an inch above the reactor, her fingers clasped around his back. He reaches past her to help himself to a handful of M&Ms, and gives her the red ones even though they’re the nicest. He’ll give her all the nicest things, wants to, wishes she’d let him.

Consolation prize, if nothing else, for loving a man who keeps her awake even when he isn’t actually trying to be an asshole, which has always been his primary setting.

Tony opens his mouth to tell her, to answer the questions she leaves hidden inside her care, and her silence, and her tender touches in the pre-dawn shivers. He opens his mouth to apologise, or to say something profound.

What comes out: “Don’t be a worry wart. I’m spectacular. _You, _are spectacular. Come to bed. Come on. Stop, or the sugar will keep you up all night, and then you’ll be a _cranky _CEO come morning. Deborah and Michael will tremble in their little HR booties.”

He’s too busy tugging at her cold hands, too busy announcing “JARVIS, get the heating up, won’t you? You know Pepper’s circulation isn’t as good as ours” to see Pepper’s stolen smile.

_“The heating is set to Miss Potts’ requested setting, sir,” _JARVIS replies, and Tony frowns at Pepper’s secretive grin.

“What?” he asks, and then he realises. “No.”

“I knew you remembered their names,” she says, chuckling into his protesting throat and admonishing him with chiding hands and tuts of her tongue.

“No, I don’t. You must have mentioned them, today, just now. On the phone. You should know better than to talk to Mrs Potts about your colleagues, that’s a breach of Happy’s new security protocols. I’m going to have to rat you out. Duty calls. For the sake of the company.”

He lets himself be tugged away from the kitchen, as JARVIS dims the lights and Pepper laughs her accusation into the height of the house, which is starlit through the windows. She, too, the stuff of moonbeams in the night, as they illuminate her face, and hair, the tan length of her legs.

“You were so rude to him last week,” she’s saying, her hand tight around Tony’s, nails biting into his palm pleasantly. “And Deborah was so polite to you, even when you called her Dora the Explorer. I can’t believe you, Tony.”

He stops her short, yanks at her arm just shy of too harshly and she swings back around, makes it into something nicer, softer, happier. She makes all his hardest edges nicer. Pepper nudges her nose against Tony’s, and her eyes are full of all the things she knows, which is often twice what Tony thinks he’ll ever be sure of.

“Do you mean that?” he asks, and it’s not until he’s said it that he realises he should have kept his sorry trap shut.

Pepper’s expression softens, she softens all over.

“You’re absurd,” she says, somehow in a voice of compliments. She’s called him many things, but they have always sounded better in her cadences than any other’s. “I’ll always believe you.”

For a moment, that seems to be the end of it. He nods, and she puts her hands on his face, her thumbs to the corners of his mouth. She tells him: “But that’s part of the problem. Isn’t it?”

When she reclaims his hand, when she leads the way back to their bedroom, he follows, gripping her tighter than before. It is an easy thing, to follow her. Sometimes, it feels like the only easy thing.

They go to bed, and Tony keeps her cradled in his arms, until she is asleep. He listens to the lullaby of her breaths, feels them against his chest. Eventually, he untucks her from his grip. Pins her to the bed with fresh blankets, tells JARVIS to increase the temperature by another notch.

He walks barefoot to the lab, and makes himself a coffee.

“JARVIS, give me the lowdown on WINNIPEG.”

A hologram expands before him, a scattering of data, fresh and old. The bright glare is painful, and he blinks against it. Rubs at his eyelids and pinches his nose and he stares at an image of a little girl called Isobel Kenning. It’s her most recent school photograph, primly poised, a first grader with a missing tooth, a spotty black headband pushing back her hair off her face. Her first ever school picture.

Her last ever school picture, too, as it turned out.

“Has itsy bitsy responded to any of our messages?” he asks.

_“Not yet, sir,” _JARVIS replies. _“However, Captain Rogers is abroad on SHIELD activity that has been triple encrypted, for reasons I have been unable to ascertain. From what I have been able to decode, it is a simple transport mission, but the layers of additional security would imply there is something more important going on. Or it could be what you might call, a red herring.”_

“Is he, now?” Tony says. “Fury still got him on the naughty step?”

_“I’d say that increasing his chores might be a more accurate analogy, sir,” _JARVIS says. _“According to the official log, he has been assigned to another mission alongside the ALPHA Team of SHIELD’s STRIKE Unit.”_

“Do we like them?” Tony asks, glancing over the infuriatingly heavily redacted report JARVIS has managed to yank out of SHIELD’s servers. He doesn’t recognise any of the names on the list.

_“They are an unknown element,” _JARVIS says.

This is, perhaps, the most unnerving answer of all.

Ten thousand miles away, a Soldier wakes up, ready to comply.

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

The mission parameters are simple, the objective clear. A British diplomat is visiting Kinshasa in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

Jacob Marlow, Jack to his friends and Jake to his wife, will have a strong security detail throughout his visit. He will be accompanied close hand at all times by Reid, his personal bodyguard, and up to three additional personnel, plus five more within a hundred yards. He’s five foot eleven inches, and he always sleeps in a west facing window room when he travels.

“You will fly out tonight,” Lewinski says, slapping a file onto the desk and clicking the Soldier into place on the chair. In the same breath, he looks back over to the technicians standing cautiously to one side, flanked by guards. “Prep him, and have him in the transport by fifteen hundred hours.”

Lewinski waits for the techs to nod before looking back at the Soldier, who regards his wide blue eyes with interest. Something is wrong. Lewinski’s usual cool veneer of control has been stripped away, and what is left is the frantic, choppy manner of a man running out of time.

“No funny business, this time,” he says to the Soldier, who does not know what that means, except perhaps that it might explain the strange, pounding ache that has taken hold of his lower back and legs. If he required enforcement after the last mission, it must have gone wrong.

Failure is, after all, an unacceptable outcome.

Lewinski opens his mouth, only to close it again, dismissing the Soldier with a flick of his hand and stalking out of the room.

The first technician, tall with peppery receding hair and thin rimmed glasses, steps towards the Soldier.

“Just do what Rumlow tells you on the way out, alright?” he says in an uneasy tone, almost quiet, almost silent. “Do you realise how long it takes to recalibrate this when you fuck it up?”

He knocks the left metal arm with the back of his knuckles as he says it, and the Soldier flicks his eyes down, surprised to realise there has been an upgrade. The metal is new, each overlapping plate bending and shifting at the tiniest of increments. For a disorienting moment, the Soldier imagines it to be made of tough, impenetrable flesh.

He blinks, and looks back up at the technician, who is holding the file in both of his hands as if it were a live grenade.

Behind him, one of the guards moves his jaw, making a bright popping sound from inside his mouth.

_Can your griping, _somebody said, once, their anger punctuated by a gum gun pop from inside the cavern of their mouth, lodged between their back teeth like cyanide. _Save your Ks, you darn waster._

The Soldier keeps his eyes on the guard, until the technician starts the sequence.

**(отчет trans. DOCTOR H---- M-------- – ASSIGNED HANDLER --/--/1959 - --/--/1959 – TEST SUBJECT A------- – S------- 3------8– B----- – --/--/----**

** **

** _PAGE 3 OF 7_ **

_TETRODOTOXIN response (LD50 300mcg p/ kg) 80% diminished capacity for 4 days. Asset remained unconscious for 2 of 4 DAYS. (see below)_

_VX response (LD50 3mcg p/ kg) 70% diminished capacity for 8 days. Asset paralysed for 34 hours of 8 DAYS. (see below)_

_BOTULINIUM TOXIN response (LD50 1ng p/ kg) 98% diminished capacity for 6 weeks. Asset reached fatality threshold. Revived by DOCTOR K_\---_ H---------_ _after 4 MINUTES__. (see below)_

**_TEST PHASE ENDED --_/--/1959**

The Soldier steps onto the jet, eyes the controls for three measured seconds, then takes the pilot’s seat.

As he fires up the engine, he looks out to see the high walls of the fortress, its imposing brick surface, the long shadow it casts over the city below, a city he does not recognise. The flight plan is in the logs, along with a catalogue of weaponry and a self-destruct failsafe.

The Soldier shifts his weight. The pain in the lower spine is less, now. Deeper. Recovering. Minimal to zero impact on the mission’s completion.

With a pull on the controls, the jet lifts almost noiselessly into the air, purring up into the clouds, until there is only the sky.

He stares out at the vastness of the blue and grey and white, and flies south, towards his mission.

**fortress**

**hawk**

“How do you feel?” a voice asks.

It is unclear how the woman asking knows he is awake. He has not moved, has not yet opened his eyes, has not so much as stirred them behind his lids. He is memorising the bite of each screw in his bones, cataloguing the murmuring of movement about the room.

How does he feel?

He doesn’t know. He just does.

At the last moment, he notices her closeness, just in time to keep from biting the rim of the plastic cup she puts to his mouth. He takes the small sip she offers. The water is cool, stings his chapped lips, wets his sticky tongue, loosening the dry blood from the back of his teeth, so that it slips back down his throat.

“Open your eyes,” the woman tells him, so he does.

Her hands are pale, clutched tight around an orange cup. Her nails are manicured. Her wrists are delicate. He looks up, past her stomach and her chest, the collarbones peeking out of her shirt, the long line of her throat, her chin, her lips, her nose. Her eyes are the best of greens, a balm against the migraine searing through his skull.

“That’s better,” she says, and he believes her. “Are you in pain?”

_Yes, _his body says, but his mouth denies it confession for a moment. There is pain, yes, but he knows pain intimately, and it is barely present, here. He does not know if it counts. He means to ask, but her eyes are cool and commanding and he says: “No,” instead.

“Good,” she tells him, and he basks in the simple praise, just long enough to be soothed by it. “I’m going to bring you down onto your front, now. Do not tense your muscles.”

His conflicted abdominals immediately tense in response, and he notices for the first time he is being held suspended at the torso. His legs and hips are flat against a hard metal table, but his chest is braced, as are his shoulders, and elbows, and wrists, as if he is rigged to fly. He feels, momentarily, the brush of air against his face as he plummets through the sky and then –

A whirring sound, He flinches, and tries to loosen up his muscles as the wires attached to his braces lengthen, and he is slowly lowered to lie flat against the cold surface. When he shivers, it sends a white hot flash down his spine.

“I know, I know,” the woman croons at his involuntary sound, her nails biting into the back of his head as she strokes his hair. “It’s healing nicely, though. Soon, you’ll be healthy enough for us to finish the procedure. And then.”

She crouches near his head, and the pad of one of her thumbs rests on his lower eyelid, her nail brushes right against the eyelashes, smearing accidental wetness away.

“Then, you’ll be perfect,” she says, very gently, as if it were the best of compliments, and perhaps it is.

He tries to smile at her, but it’s difficult, keeping the sounds from his throat trapped inside.

“Sleep, Hawk,” she demands of him, and so, he does.

When he wakes up again, he is heavier than before. An exact pressure, he is not sure what, weighs him down to the table. It is different to the bracing of restraints, different also to being pressed down by a person, either malicious or benign. He tries to summon within himself the sense memory of what this feeling is, but it doesn’t work.

He is reminded, only, of holding a sheaf of papers in his hands, and stapling them together with a clack of a heavy-duty stapler. Somebody said: _Look at you, my very own Secretary, _and he made a joke about handcuffs and floggers.

It had been funny. Somebody had laughed. A woman, her voice a shade of his own heart. It rang loud, for all its quietness. It pleased him to hear.

Now he can hear machines, and voices, and the shuffling sound of a storm. It takes him a moment to balance them all in his head, to redistribute the sound mentally within his awareness, until he knows: the machines are in the room with him, the people speaking are directly outside the cracked door, and the storm is outside the building.

One of the voices says: _“…inadequate muscle grouping for the additional parts. It will be months before he can even walk sufficiently. Do we have that kind of time? We’ve dosed him four times already and I still think we need to check for an infection. If it gets in his spinal fluid, he’s ruined.”_

Another voice replies: _“That’s why we got him first, though, right? Don’t worry so much. This is just the test round. If it goes wrong, we try again.”_

_“And if we have to scrap him, what do we tell the Soldier? I told Halford giving that animal a pet was a bad idea.”_

_“Then we wipe him clean. It’s been less than a year since–”_

_“You don’t understand, Milo,” _the first voice says, harsher than before, more of a whisper, yet louder for it. _“You didn’t see him a few months back. We thought we’d wiped him clean. We had. But he nearly tore Rollins’ guts out when he got back from a mission and couldn’t find Barton. He thought we’d gotten rid of him. I’ve never seen anything like it.”_

He loses track, after that. The thread unravels into loose strands that he can’t clutch together, so he drifts onwards, through the stupor, and feels the warm rush of the infection thrumming through the open sores in his back. The cold air stings, painful, enough to keep him just about awake.

Outside, the storm rages. It sounds like a city being flooded. The scourge of God, a plague upon the soon to be dead.

_I am Wrath, _he thinks, a little hysterically, and an unexpected bubble of laughter trickles out of his mouth.

**brno, czech republic**

**captain america**

The SHIELD Facility is nicely tucked between a bakery and a street end, looking entirely innocuous, with a view of the whole street from the front door, right down to the church at the other end. A Catholic one, it looks to be. He ducked his head in when he arrived, and was casing the area in search of anomalies. He likes going into churches, likes the calmness of them, the splendour. Reminds him of his mother’s rosary beads, the ones that she was buried with, clutched between her dead hands like a salvation in the grave. It worried him, briefly, the thought of grave robbers tearing them out of her grasp, but he knew what she’d have said to that.

_What do I need ‘em for, anyway, Steven Grant? I’m already with Him._

Steve thinks he might have lived too long, seen too much, to really believe in One Almighty Father. But it’s a reflex, see, the idea of one. Rolls off his tongue like sarcasm and courage.

After the Battle of New York. Somewhere, amidst the turmoil, Agent Romanoff had looked at him, eyebrow raised, and said: “I thought there was _Only One God, Ma’am?”_

Steve had laughed with her, and told her he liked keeping up the image, the good Irish Catholic boy, proud of his immigrant mother, proud of her faith, even if he didn’t really share it.

Natasha hadn’t laughed, but she had tipped her head in some obscure equivalent gesture, and told him about all the good Christian groups using his name and image for their glory, and that had shut him up for a few minutes, then had him arguing with a whole new faction of society for the rest of the year.

Brno isn’t a large city, not to a New Yorker, not to a boy from Brooklyn. But it’s old, and beautiful, and full of hiding places.

Steve returns to the SHIELD Facility, which is expertly projecting a façade as a clean energy company that even has little stickers dotting one of the windows, Green Peace and an anti BP sticker and a CLEAN ARC SI logo that he automatically takes a photo of with his personal StarkPhone to send to Tony, so he can rib Fury with it next time he harasses the director over something.

Up the stairs, through the back into what appears from the outside to be a row of residential buildings, is a fortress of weaponry and monitoring systems.

Steve walks through unhindered, until he reaches the briefing room he’d been directed to.

Deputy Director Maria Hill is there already, along with a man he does not recognise whose badge reads _Agent Thomas Grieg, _and Agent Rumlow, leader of the STRIKE Team ALPHA.

Rumlow is a tough son of a bitch, a hard worker and a harder fighter, and this won’t be Steve’s first mission with him, or any of the ALPHAs. He’s worked with all the STRIKE Teams by now, and has been briefed three times on his possible future as the other half of SHIELD’s smallest Team. DELTA, a two-person crew, with a single handler.

Steve had naively accepted the first time it was offered. He had not thought to question Fury’s open, genuine offer, and had readily asked to be added to the roster at their earliest convenience.

Then Natasha had vanished, as if into thin air, but not before leaving a file pinned to his bedroom door with a knife buried all the way to the hilt, bearing details of the original DELTA pair, at which point Steve had understood perfectly. He had tossed the file on Fury’s desk the very next day, and demanded to know all developments of SHIELD’s incredibly thorough and in no way side-lined search for their missing agent, Hawkeye.

It had been a less than fruitful interrogation, and Natasha hadn’t come back for almost two months, at which point, well. She won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, it seems.

“Cap,” Rumlow greets as Steve enters, and Steve bids them both good morning.

“There’s been a change of plan,” Hill says, brandishing a file at Steve. “Rumlow is needed on another operation, so his second, Rollins, will be taking his place. Agent Rollins is with his STRIKE Team right now, but I wanted you to meet your eyes and ears, Agent Grieg.”

“Rollins,” Steve says with interest, looking at Rumlow’s clenched jaw, his dark eyes. “How is he? Heard he got hurt pretty bad.”

“Jack’s a fighter,” Rumlow says with a wry, proud grin that reminds Steve of some of boys he’d met in the war, armed better with dark humour than any weapon the army could strap to their boots. “He’s ready to get back in the saddle, no two ways about it.”

Steve doesn’t know the ins and outs of the op that had left Rollins stitched six ways to Sunday, but he’d run into the guy at HQ a couple of months ago, and he’d looked more than rough. He was glad it hadn’t been more serious – the last thing SHIELD needed right now was the loss of any more good agents.

“Our passenger,” Agent Grieg says, all business, cutting off any response Steve might have given. “A man called Otto Juliano. He was a consultant contracted for a variety of European research developers, however his breakthroughs in chemical weapons and bionic weaponry have perked the interest of one too many underground attentions. We’re to transport him from his current safehouse in Prague to a facility in East Sokovia, where he will be continuing his research under wraps for SHIELD, to see it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Steve would like very much to know what Otto Juliano thinks of conducting his research under SHIELD’s eye, or why SHIELD would want him to continue his research at all if it’s so dangerous. However, he doubts Grieg is the person to ask, and he knows Hill isn’t, so he bites his tongue until he’s tasting blood, and he smiles with polite interest.

This is yet another milk run.

Steve is getting pretty sick of milk runs, but he supposes that’s what he gets for having independent thoughts when he’s under the watchful eye of people like the World Security Council, and Nick Fury. He tells himself, every day as he dips his straight razor into the warm water of the sink, that at least he walked out of the disciplinary unscathed.

He hasn’t seen Natasha in weeks.

Steve opens the file Hill has handed him, perusing it with a pointed _How interesting _expression that makes Rumlow hastily turn his startled chuckle into a cough. It’s something close to comfort, Steve acknowledges, to know fellow Agents have about as much respect for SHIELD’s bureaucratic bullshit as he does.

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” he asks, snapping the file shut and turning to the ALPHA Leader. “Good luck on your assignment, Rumlow. I hope we see you safely back at HQ soon.”

“Likewise, Cap,” Rumlow says over a calloused handshake. He gives a sharp salute to Grieg and Hill, which they couldn’t definitively accuse him of being sarcastic, but Steve can read as easy as an old Captain comic.

Once Rumlow has departed, Steve turns to Grieg.

“So, what’s in East Sokovia?” he asks, pretending not to notice Hill’s sideways grimace at his tone.

Dr Otto Juliano is a short, bespectacled man with a handsomely lined face, a prominent limp from favouring his left side, and a curiously collected manner for a man whose actions have caught the attentions of multiple terrorist organisations.

“Yes, yes, I’m aware of the protocols,” he says, blustering both hands as if swatting away a swarm of mosquitos as he clambers into the back of the fourth vehicle of the low profile escort. He’s scheduled to travel in a car with Steve and Secor – a wiry, black haired agent with a youthful grin that he safely keeps tucked away behind a forced, permanent grimace.

Juliano takes one look at Steve – a long, assessing look, complete with raised eyebrows and pursed lips – before huffing loudly.

“You’re very Aryan, aren’t you?” he says in a voice that requires no answering.

Lucky, really, because Steve can’t think of a single reasonable response to that one.

They drive for over twelve hours, crossing multiple borders multiple times, and Juliano seems content to amuse himself with a tablet that he taps away at with thick index fingers, occasionally exhaling dramatically before typing something in an exaggerated flurry. More than once, Steve catches Secor’s eye and they have to look away from each other to avoid their smirks turning into something more noticeable.

By the time they pass finally into Sokovia, Steve is itching to get out of the vehicle for more than five minutes, having spent the past four hours keeping eighty percent of his attention on the car’s surroundings, the other twenty percent on mentally drawing cartoons of circus elephants trampling their tents in a joyous rampage.

Their destination, a laboratory built into the crevice splitting two large mountains with only one access road and concealed from almost every angle for miles and miles, looks at first glance to be abandoned, but for two visible guards in sniper positions as they approach. There are, undoubtedly, more that Steve isn’t interested in looking for.

An ugly, familiar sensation threads down his spine, like water through a crevice, or blood from a wound.

Steve does not know, and will not know for some time, how important this milk run mission is. It is, for Steve Rogers, a gruelling punishment befitting his drastic impatience. It is the kind of task Nick Fury assigns Captain America only because he wants Captain America to feel some of the effects of his hastiest actions.

And it’s for this reason, and perhaps this reason alone, that when Steve and Agent Secor climb out of the vehicle, discreetly stretching their limbs and shepherding their charge directly into the nearest building, that Steve feels no prickling of suspicion as he is greeted at the laboratory’s lobby entrance by two guards flanking a slender woman wearing a long, grease stained lab coat with the sleeves rolled up.

The woman’s face has a brightness to it, less to do with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her pale skin, her wide green eyes, but rather the expression she wears. It’s a welcoming, homely expression, one that speaks of a warmth that does not belong in the bitter stone mountains of her surroundings.

“Doctor Juliano,” she says with enthusiasm. “We’re so glad to have you here with us.”

Steve remains standing on Juliano’s left, Agent Secor to his right, and he hears in his comms the crackle of Rollins handing out orders to the rest of ALPHA Strike as they flank and search the premises for suspicious activity, or signs of a tail.

Juliano steps boldly forwards, still clutching his tablet, to shake the woman’s hand with violent movements.

“No thanks to the lot of you,” he says rudely, and the woman laughs indelicately.

“Now, Otto,” she says with a coy tip of her chin. “What better protection could we afford you than our best STRIKE? Not to mention Captain America.”

At this, the woman looks directly to Steve for four full seconds, during which she looks absolutely nowhere other than Steve’s eyes, and Steve has a momentary sensation of dropping several feet, as if he has been x-rayed and scooped out from the inside.

Then, she smiles generously back at Juliano, who is muttering snippily.

“Agent Secor,” the woman says. “Will you and Petrov here accompany Doctor Juliano to his quarters? I assume you will want a full briefing of our updated security measures.”

Secor thanks her, nodding, and remains very close to Juliano’s side as he walks the man, along with one of the two armed guards forming their welcome party, away to a set of metal double doors that require a retinal scan and keycode to pass through.

In his ear, Steve hears Rollins issue Secor orders on protocol checks. He ignores this, in favour of accepting the woman’s hand when she offers it out to him.

“Captain,” she says, “I have to say, it’s a real honour.”

Her hand is cool, her grip tight, and her voice is a fresh balm as he finally discerns, between the lilting transatlantic notes of her accent, a trace of Irish melody.

“Happy to be of service, Ma’am,” he replies dutifully, and the woman’s eyes dart down as she blushes.

“How rude of me – my name is Doctor Charlotte Pierce,” she corrects him, clasping her hands in front of her.

Steve raises his eyebrows at the name. “Forgive me, but is –”

“Secretary Pierce is my father,” she interrupts him, only the faintest tinge of triteness to her voice as she admits it. Steve can’t blame her; that must be a mighty shadow to live in. “He was quite devastated I didn’t pursue the path of diplomacy he had intended for me, but – well. I guess I just understand machinery a lot better than people.”

She gestures, as she speaks, to the streaks of oil peppering her fingers and forearms, and Steve is abruptly reminded of Tony banging about his workshop, chatting as easily with his AI and his bots as he _doesn’t _with his teammates. It bursts a strange sort of fondness in his chest, that has little to do with Charlotte Pierce, yet he smiles anyway, and enjoys her returning grin.

“You work in the labs here?” he asks.

As if prompted by the mention, they both glance around the sparse lobby they stand in, which Steve notes in an instinctive gathering of data is severely lacking in vents. It’s a stronghold, which he’d known from the blueprints he’d looked over in the file, but still. There’s a lifelessness to the air that is discomfiting, especially when it is the backdrop to this laughing, enthusiastic woman.

“Officially, I have an office in London,” Charlotte admits with a twist of her mouth. “But I have little taste for it. I prefer to be on the ground, with my teams. I’m easily bored by paper pushing.”

“Amen to that,” Steve says, and they commiserate together over the necessity of it while they wait for Rollins to enter through the main glass doors.

When he does, he’s striding fast, and his nod to Charlotte is spoiled by an awkward, uncomfortable look that Steve doesn’t like. It’s similar to the way he’s seen Rollins behave around Deputy Director Hill, and Natasha Romanoff, and countless other women he is, in effect, subordinate to. He’s not a hard read, and Steve is reminded why he much prefers Rumlow’s leadership, when he can get it.

Charlotte either doesn’t recognise his expression, or is above acknowledging it.

“Rollins,” she says just as politely as she had welcomed Steve. “Everything up to scratch?”

“I wasn’t expecting you, Doc,” Rollins says, and it’s only then that Charlotte’s piercing green eyes harden a little, though her smile remains intact.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting you either, Jack,” she retorts, and Steve only refrains from snorting because he is a goddamn professional, and because he’s spent the past few months learning how not to accidentally encourage Tony Stark’s bad behaviour by rewarding it with laughter. “I arrived early, when I heard Doctor Juliano would be joining our team. Have you seen his work on developing advancements in bionic prostheses? Just fascinating.”

This last, she says to Steve, who shakes his head.

“I glanced over his works,” he admits. “But I have to say, it went a little over my head.”

Charlotte shrugs one shoulder in dismissal.

“Well, all I can say is, he’s going to be instrumental to our research. I’m very grateful you brought him to us safely.”

“Captain Rogers,” Rollins says before Steve can come up with a suitable response. “Zimmerman is scrambling a jet. I need you, Lloyd and Walker on it and returning to D.C. first thing. Take-off in twenty. You good?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve says very politely, taking in Rollins’ pasty cheeks. He wonders, without comment, if Rollins had exaggerated his recovery to Rumlow, and Hill. He doesn’t look well, all of a sudden.

He turns back to Charlotte, who is also looking with concern at Rollins. Noticing Steve’s attention, she returns his gaze.

“Well,” she sighs, a little sadly. “An honour, Captain. I hope we see you again in Sokovia, before too long.”

“I go where I’m needed,” Steve replies, which feels like a copout answer but is, unfortunately, the truth of the matter.

They shake hands a second time, a little longer than before, a little friendlier, and Steve can’t help but decide he likes this woman infinitely more than her father, whom he’s met all of once, and is in no hurry to meet again anytime soon. He bids goodbye to both Charlotte Pierce and Rollins, leaving them to their glaring match as he exits the building and heads towards Lloyd, who is waiting for him outside.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Lloyd groans very loudly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I fucking hate Europe.”

It seems a little broad a statement, to dismiss an entire continent, but Steve doesn’t say as much.

The truth is, he’s ready to leave, too.

Winter has come and gone, but the mountains are high enough, cold enough, that their peaks are still salted with snow patches, and Steve can’t quite bring himself to look at them as he walks determinedly around the perimeter, towards the pad where a jet is waiting for them. He tries not to catch sight of the sheer grey cliff faces, high above. Their cuts and grooves, where it is all too easy to imagine a train line running along its edge, or someone falling from it, too quickly to be caught.

Where the wind, caught in the lip whistle of the rocks, cuts through the air like the screams of a falling soldier, plummeting to his death.

**austria**

**steve rogers**

The night before it happened, when they did not know yet what the morning would bring them.

_“Steve?”_

It was whispered, hot as tar in smoke laboured lungs, into the back of his neck. Steve shivered in response.

“Yeah?” he whispered back, terrified of the wobble undercutting his name.

Bucky’s hands were warm, his fingers moulded around the curve of Steve’s hipbones, wriggling over his bare skin. When he breathed, Steve felt his ribs against back. He was losing weight. They all were, but every time Steve looked it was as if Buck was shedding pounds faster than the rest of them. He was wiry where he used to be lean, skinny where he used to be slim.

“When we get Zola –” Buck said.

He stopped as he started, but for a second, Steve basked in it, the rough confidence of it. _When, _always _when _with Bucky, not _if. _Steve’s very foundation was built and maintained, first and foremost, on Bucky Barnes’ confidence, which he was afforded a long time before anybody else’s.

“Yeah?” Steve whispered again, when Bucky didn’t finish.

Bucky, flush against him, and his nose was cold in Steve’s hairline.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bucky said.

Stopped as he started, and Steve didn’t fight him on it, like he might’ve done, on another night, like he’d wish he had done later. Instead, Steve let it go, because Bucky was warm against him, and they didn’t have much longer, and he _wanted _longer, wanted it like he always did, always had, always would.

Told himself: _One day, we’ll have more time. _Forgot, in his greed, that his Ma’s God has ways of punishing the assumptions of men.

Sixteen hours later, Bucky was gone.

**самолет**

**солдат**

_(plane)_

_(soldier)_

Rumlow is a good co-pilot for lots of reasons.

He is capable, and he is clever, and he is quiet about it. If he has an order, he gives it. If he has an opinion, he gives it. It is always very clear when Rumlow is giving an order and when he is giving an opinion. There is no risk of getting the two muddled up.

The Soldier understands what is expected of him, where Rumlow is concerned. The Soldier does not know exactly how to define the settled sensation in his gut he feels when he is around Rumlow, only that it is consistent and deserved. He knows exactly what Rumlow wants and how to give it.

He does a good job, and Rumlow thanks him for it, and then they fly back to the base.

There are two other agents with them, strapped in rear seats of the jet, but the Soldier pays them no heed. Rumlow has given him no indication he should so much as look at them, so he doesn’t. He looks out to the skies instead, and to the jet controls, and occasionally to Rumlow, whose eyes are closed, his fingers interlocked on his stomach as he pretends to sleep.

He only ever pretends to sleep around the Soldier. Only the idiots truly sleep around the Soldier.

“You need something, Soldier Boy?” Rumlow asks without opening his eyes.

The Soldier turns his head back towards the front, slowly enough to catch the glint of Rumlow opening his eyes. He doesn’t sound angry, which means he isn’t.

It’s simple, like that, with Rumlow. Rumlow is exactly as he seems, at all times. There is no subterfuge with Rumlow, which the Soldier prefers, although sometimes he wonders if that kind of transparency will one day be the death of Rumlow.

“No requirements, sir,” the Soldier replies with a tight, confident jaw. He can feel Rumlow watching him, the burn of his assessing gaze.

Rumlow lets out a chuffed, chortling sound. He often laughs when the Soldier calls him _sir._

“Then just you worry about flying straight, OK?”

The Soldier nods in acquiescence, and checks their altitude even though he knows it hasn’t changed in the last four hundred and eighteen seconds.

Rumlow adds, through another of those ragged sounds: “We’ll get you back to your birdcage soon enough.”

The Soldier blinks, watching the cut of a sunbeam split two clouds apart. It’s pale gold, vibrant, and they are heading straight towards it like a giant metal moth drawn towards its warm light. He thinks of a birdcage, and he thinks of a warm, heavy hand gripping his wrist so tightly he is aware of the thready veins beneath the skin. He thinks of ratty hair, a darker gold than the sunlight they are streaking towards.

He hears a thick, raw voice murmur: _You didn’t hurt me._

Incongruous to the dominating omnipresence of a shadow, overlaying his own, bigger, broader, brighter.

“The Hawk,” he says, startling himself, as if he had forgotten, or remembered, or both, simultaneously.

“Been a while since you asked,” Rumlow grunted, still carrying a smirk in his voice that’s stitched together threads of amusement and derision. “I was starting to wonder.”

The Soldier tries not to frown, and then wonders he wants to.

_(Wants to?)_

“He’s at the Base,” the Soldier says, and he risks a glance at Rumlow, who is watching him with frightening scrutiny that the Soldier reminds himself he is used to. Tightens his grip on the jet’s controls anyway, feels the give of the metal and plastic in his left hand, and his right.

“Yes, he is,” Rumlow says, harder, even more amused, even more derisive. “They’re fixing him up. Halford’s doing you a big old favour, putting so much effort into him. Wouldn’t you say?”

The Soldier doesn’t know anything about a favour. The Hawk is, she had assured him, her _project. _His mission. The Soldier abides by his missions as he abides by Halford, and she wants him to protect the Hawk and so, he protects the Hawk.

The Soldier steals another guilty look at Rumlow, but the agent isn’t angry. He’s the same. Scathingly entertained.

“Reckon he’s going to be ready for a mission of his own, before you know it. Wouldn’t you say?”

There are handlers and agents who ask questions but don’t want answers. The Soldier knows this. Lewinski doesn’t like answers to a lot of his questions. Halford sometimes wants answers, and she gets them by snapping her fingers and pinching with her nails. Pierce only asks questions he wants answered.

Rumlow is an oddity, in that he does like answers to his questions, but he doesn’t need them. And sometimes, even when he doesn’t ask a question, he likes an answer.

The Soldier nods evasively, and tucks his collar bones a little closer to himself, and stares at the sunbeam in his path, smudged by a fast moving cloud.

Rumlow makes another chuckling sound of enjoyment, even reaches over to push the Soldier’s temple with two fingers, and the Soldier allows it, because it is Rumlow and Rumlow has never, ever harmed him. Because Rumlow is in charge, and that means he is in charge of the Soldier.

“Boss,” one of the agents from the rear of the jet says, clearing his throat loudly. “We should –”

“Shut your cakehole, Lewis,” Rumlow says with an exaggerated yawn, stretching out his arms and legs and returning his clasped fingers to his stomach. He closes his eyes, and he looks for a moment like the laziest, most dangerous predator in the jungle. “Drive straight, Soldier Boy. You hurry up, we might even beat Halford back to basecamp.”

The Soldier doesn’t know what this means, does not know why Halford would leave in the first place. He drives straight anyway, because Rumlow has told him to. Because that is, after all, his mission.

**manchester, england**

**black widow**

She walks past the Engels statue anyway.

It’s a habit, a compulsion. Something she did not used to have, something she should not still have, except she does. She exists in that otherly nature she inhabited like a second skin. Grew into this person, who is one of habits and compulsions the same as other human beings. It doesn’t come naturally to her. Or, it didn’t. She’s worked at it. She’s learned.

And it’s this learned habit, this adopted compulsion, that takes her past Engels’ statue, even though there’s no point in taking a photo of it this time, because there’s nobody to send it to.

They would treasure hunt across Europe between jobs, when they could. Sometimes it was six months or more between finding one place and the next. In 2009, Clint spectacularly fucked up a pick-up intended for Madrid because he thought she had sent him _Vive la r_ _volution _when in actual fact, it had been _Viva la revolución._

Phil had been extraordinarily angry.

(With Clint, of course, for mistaking one romance language for another. Phil had always been a big fan of treasure hunts.)

Natasha stands for thirty seconds, staring at Friedrich Engels’ face, and thinks about every single wasted opportunity she could have spent texting Clint stupid landmarks and commemorative plaques and amusing doorknobs, but didn’t, because she knew better than to give herself away too loudly.

Discretion, she’d promised herself, in the face of everything else. Clint was loud enough for both of them, when he wanted to be. He knew how to fill her silence with words, her absence with colour. Paint-by-numbers on the soul, she’d loved him so much longer than he ever really knew.

Engels stares back at her blindly, and she turns away from him reproachful glare. Walks back in the direction of Piccadilly, where her contact has already been waiting twenty minutes longer than she promised.

Her crème coat is a little too stylish, her nut brown curls perhaps a little too perfect around her face, and her boots click on the pavement in a cutting rhythm to match her heartbeat. She slips behind a bus stop queue and does a quick jog over a busy road with a flapping hand of apology, like she’s late for a train, or a lover, and she smiles indulgently at the couple who step out of her way when they notice she’s in a hurry.

The straight line to the station is bustling, easy, and Natasha feels Friedrich Engel’s stone stare all the way, all the way to the puffy air pub on the corner, the ringing sound of station tannoy announcements not quite audible over the din.

Freya’s stolen herself a corner table big enough for four people, and she smiles neatly when she catches Natasha’s eye. She’s got a coat dripping Dali over two chairs, a large handbag over a third, and there are two men clumsily holding their pints and glowering at her from the bar where they stand, hoping to snatch a seat out from under somebody else at the nearest opportunity.

Natasha goes to the bar, orders herself two vodka tonics and carries them to the table, flatly ignoring the white wine Freya has put in front of her open seat.

It’s nothing personal. There’s precisely one person Natasha allows to buy her drinks without her supervision.

Allowed.

Maybe.

Freya smirks, gesturing her _oh well, more for me _with one shoulder and without comment, taking back the second wine glass.

“I never quite believe it’s you when you’re not lit up like a beacon,” Freya says. She’s adopted a local accent, and she suits it a lot better than the south London slang she’d developed the last time they met. Her eyes dart to Natasha’s hair and back to her face.

“You have information,” Natasha replies, between generous sips of vodka, leaving red stains on the glass.

Freya brushes her dirty blonde hair out of her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose with her thumb.

A plain, attractive face, a versatile voice, and an enviable eye for obscure details, she’s about as trustworthy a contact as Natasha’s ever managed to maintain since her earliest days following the Red Room. Natasha knows for a fact Fury has tried to recruit her more than once, but whatever MI6 offers that SHIELD doesn’t, it’s enough to keep Freya Wallis firmly wedged under their umbrella.

Truthfully, Natasha likes her unshakeable loyalty. She likes having people outside SHIELD’s ever widening thumb she can contact in a hurry.

“You have a disciplinary,” Freya retorts coolly, then takes a big gulp of wine that doesn’t hide her grin.

Natasha waits, patiently. It’s what she does.

She waits, and allows Freya to consider her. Her attention, and her lack of a denial. She’s right, however in hell Freya found out, she’s _right. _Natasha isn’t going to bluster through a lie she isn’t interested in constructing. Either Freya will give her what she wants, or she won’t.

Freya takes an obvious breath, licks her lips and holds the stem of her glass in both hands.

“I haven’t heard a peep of him this side of the Atlantic,” she says sharply, like a precursor to her tells, like she’s forestalling the obliteration of hope.

“I know,” Natasha replies truthfully. “I hadn’t expected you to.”

Freya nods, her chin dimpling unhappily.

“I am sorry about –”

“What is the information?”

Natasha likes Freya, but not enough to gargle through a pity party with her. Whatever the MI6 agent thinks she does or doesn’t know, about Clint, about Natasha, about _Clint and Natasha, _she’s not going to get a fit of tears over a glass of vodka in a beefy pub in Manchester that still smells like pre-smoking law days of hazy breathing.

Freya does something very close to rolling her eyes gracelessly.

“We intercepted an arms deal taking place at the Serbian border. A big one. The buyer’s been on our watch list for a long, long time. Some of the stash – we think it’s SHIELD material.”

Natasha frowns in a delicate balance of interest and concern, even as her mind races through each and every list of poor traders and stock moves in the past year. There’s nothing, as far as she knows, that’s out of the ordinary in SHIELD supplies.

“Why hasn’t Six informed SHIELD?”

“Because there’s nothing to prove it _is _yours,” Freya scoffs. “We’re not going to call you in the off chance you _might _have lost something of extreme value. Finders keepers and all that. If SHIELD can’t keep track of its weaponry –”

“What kind of weaponry?”

“I never saw it,” Freya says, and Natasha believes her. “Rumour is, it’s rather – other worldly, if you know what I mean.”

Of course Natasha knows what she means, anybody would. Natasha steels her expression on intrigue, lets Freya inspect it for fault lines, gives her nothing but politeness in return for her scrutiny. How the fuck could Fury be so stupid? Could Hill, could Coulson –

Her breath, sharp enough to cut right through her chest but, well. It’s not like there’s a part of her left to bleed, these days.

“Did you get all of it?”

“Everything we could find.”

“Could you find me a list?”

Freya laughs outright, a nasty sound for all the pleasantness of it, for all the prettiness of the way her nose scrunches up and her mouth parts just so, and she tips her head like a dead cocker spaniel with a pitiful look on her freckled face.

“Why yes,” she drawls with sneering enthusiasm. “Along with Amelia Earhart’s flight goggles and an autograph from the Winter Soldier.”

Natasha bites the thinnest corner of her tongue, until it’s the only pain left in her body.

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, if you’re not going to help me –”

“Jesus, Naya,” Freya retorts coldly, her smile sharpening like a needle. “I am helping, aren’t I? Who else exactly is helping you? Not many people I suppose, if you’re going to blunder your way through dead civilians like –”

“That wasn’t me and you know it, Freya,” Natasha snarls, hot as the blood choking her lungs with every breath.

She doesn’t need the reminder, doesn’t want or require it. She knows precisely how badly she’s fucked up every line of inquiry with her impatience, how rapidly she’s lost every inch she’s managed to claw in search of something, some truth, some promise, some desperate shred of hope, hope that she’s wrong, that everyone is wrong, that the world is wrong, that Clint Barton isn’t –

“I know,” Freya says, and she’s still knifelike in the gold light, shimmering like her wine, but at least her voice has softened. At least she sounds apologetic, sounds truthful. “I can’t get you a list. But I can send you a tipoff if more shipments are caught. And I do have this.”

Freya tilts her left hand as she says it, revealing a thin USB stick in her palm.

“What’ve you got?” Natasha asks. She drains her first vodka tonic and moves on to her second without pause.

The three quarters of the pub she has an easy view of swells with people, and there’s a call for the TV volume to go up four tables down. The roar of a soccer match rumbles through the crowd of punters, and Natasha’s eyes flick to the players on the screens and back again.

“One of our analysts has gone missing,” Freya says. “Official word is, he’s been wiped clean off the map but I don’t think that’s quite true. God bless him, he wasn’t important enough for anyone to make a real effort to get to Six through him, and I’ve spoken to four other agents who all think there’s more to the story than we’re being told.”

“So?”

_“So, _I don’t think your dearest darlingest Hawkeye is an isolated incident.”

Natasha clenches her jaw, and sips her vodka, and lets Freya easily slip the USB into her hand along with a twenty pound note and an order of a large pinot grigio. She goes, keeping her shoulders loose and her smiles twee as she sneaks between two men waving Manchester United scarves.

Her fingers make contact with the sticky bar, where the beer mats are soaked and the bartenders are parched, and a trickle of instinctive worry smarts in her gut. She turns her head too quickly, not quickly enough, and oxygen catches in her throat.

Freya’s chair is empty.

A pang hits her sternum. Natasha glances around the pub, commits every face to memory and forgets it in the same moment, sees not a single suspicious expression, or gesture, or stance. No threats to speak of, nothing out of the ordinary, but her tongue is dry and her diaphragm twinges and the USB in her palm is clammy.

Fear wars with control in her spine, an old dance she is well acquainted with. It feels as if Friedrich Engels’ stone cut eyes are still upon her, half a mile away. She resigns herself, in the usual way, to the possibility she will never see Freya Wallis again, and hopes against her instinct that she’s wrong.

She orders the pinot grigio, and a vodka tonic, and the bartender is pointedly upset with her for not ordering pints of Carlsberg like everyone else, but she leaves a tip anyway and carries the drinks back to the empty table. She takes Freya’s seat, and watches the soccer match, and watches the watchers, and watches the two entrances as they swing back and forth in clouds of people and tobacco and bitter air.

The vodka goes down easy, the pinot less so. Her patience, which has always been an absolute fact of her existence, has never felt so far away. She imagines in herself the poise of a sniper, on a cold exposed perch, in the wintry rain, muttering nonsense for the frustrated entertainment of her handler. She clutches the USB in her fingers, as her curls drop in the hot air, and her wine gets warm, and a sick feeling emerges from the base of her throat.

She misses him.

She misses him in ways she swore she’d never miss anyone, or anything, in all her knife-narrow life.

She misses him awfully, a pain like pins and needles in her arteries, and maybe that’s why she’s surprised, when a familiar face walks in through the station side door. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t move, or react, or have room for anything but vast, all-encompassing relief, as the woman stealthily slides to the bar, buys a pint of lager, and carries it directly to the corner table from where Natasha is watching.

Natasha leans an elbow into the table, her fingers barely grazing the rim of her wine glass, damp with condensation.

“Did Hill send you?” she asks.

Sharon Carter shakes her head, and doesn’t smile, and doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sips her lager, and pulls an exaggerated face of displeasure that Natasha doesn’t laugh at, but she does tuck one corner of her mouth upwards in a token gesture.

“Fury?” she asks.

Sharon shakes her head again, slower this time.

She says: “They’d only send me if they wanted to pull you in. Say, if you were illegally following up leads on a non-existent inquiry into a missing agent.”

This time, Natasha does smile, and she almost means it.

Sharon takes another sip of her pint.

“Steve’s been spending all his time either on mission or holed up in that cute little square inch of space Fury calls an apartment in D.C.”

There’s an unpleasant knowingness to Sharon’s innocent expression as she says it. Her elbows are neatly tucked to her trim sides, and she’s wearing a flattering blouse that she tugs at the collar of, flapping her fingers to waft cooler air in her face. After a moment, she ties her long hair up with a band into a high ponytail. It makes her look infinitely younger.

Natasha would prefer not to respond to anything regarding Steve Rogers’ activities. What Steve does is none of her business – and in fact, _shouldn’t _be, probably. She’s given him little but more grief with her own recklessness. She can only imagine –

“I think he could use a friend.”

“And what exactly is stopping you, then?” Natasha asks, missing her mark so badly she feels in her own muscles the flinch Sharon doesn’t have the wherewithal to hide. Cut by her own anger, she adds, “Stark has plenty of space. Send him over for a sleepover if you’re that worried about his wellbeing.”

“Stark’s in California,” Sharon replies, flatly ignoring the flush of her own cheeks. “I don’t know what happened –”

“You know exactly what happened –”

“– _between you and Rogers,” _Sharon continues over her interruption, her hands tight around her pint glass and her mouth curling. “But he needs a friend, and screw you for pretending not to, Romanoff, because so do you. So, here’s what I suggest. I have an assignment in London, just a two week surveillance gig. It’s Level Four, so I need a supervisor higher than Level Five and you’re going to be it. Then, we’ll go back to D.C., and you can make friends with Steve again, and maybe, _maybe, _I’ll see what I can do about making some inquiries of my own about what exactly happened in New York. Alright?”

“I’m grounded, Agent Thirteen,” Natasha reminds her in a low voice with an indulgent smile. “I can’t –”

“Operate on mission,” Sharon retorts, then blatantly gestures about the room as if to say, _And what of this?_ “Stop making excuses, it’s beneath you. I trust you. I don’t care if the World Security Council doesn’t. I asked for you and Hill said yes. That’s enough for me.”

“So Hill did send you,” Natasha replies, raising both eyebrows, and pointedly doesn’t say, despite all her better judgement: _Sometimes, just sometimes, you are unmistakably Peggy Carter’s niece._

Sharon lets out a long, pushed breath of non-laughter, a reluctant grin on her face. Her eyes are bright and shiny, and her ponytail flicks to the side when she moves.

“Will you come with me?”

Natasha nods, and pretends not to feel a hint of that sunshine relief at Sharon’s smiling response.

“Ok. Great. Good. Good. Thank you.”

Natasha shrugs, as if it is no big deal. It shouldn’t be a big deal.

(Three years ago, in the descant pf autumn, when leaves were changing and tempers were tight, Sharon Carter showed up in a medical wing carrying a tray with two large black coffees and two large ginger teas, and she left them on the bedside and pretended to be too busy to stay, and after she had disappeared out of the open doorway, Clint had turned his concussed head slowly to look at Natasha, wearing the stupidest smile on the planet, and he had said, dopey little shit: _Let’s look after that one.)_

“You should talk to Steve,” Natasha says honestly, and the primary goal isn’t the tug Sharon’s mouth in a brambly grimace, but it happens anyway. “He’d want to know. You know he would.”

Sharon drinks her pint silently and watches the soccer match, and Natasha doesn’t really blame her.

They sit in a murmuring of what might be companionable silence, and Natasha adds it to the tally score in her head, all the promises she’s keeping, even though he’s not here to be disappointed when she doesn’t. Sharon’s shoulders relax a little more with every sip of her drink, and the pub-goers get louder, and the afternoon crawls towards evening, and the game ends on a penalty shoot-out, and Natasha puts the USB stick into her pocket.

She pulls out of a zipped lining in her jacket a burner phone that’s been weighing heavier than usual.

Pretending not to notice Sharon watching, while not pretending to hide it from her, she types in Steve’s number, followed by a short text, which she sends before she can think better of it.

At Sharon’s smile, Natasha slips her coat on, fiddling with her curls in the lining and arching a single eyebrow.

“I will leave you behind,” she warns, and doesn’t react to Sharon’s tinkering laugh, nor does she look back as she walks out of the pub, into the glowing evening light.

Manchester is loud, and vibrant, and heavy. Sharon stands behind her, a little to her right, and Natasha has the unmistakable feeling that her back is covered. Hates it with every fibre of her being; sinks into it, like goose down, like grass.

When she looks down, it’s to see Sharon holding out a train ticket marked for London Euston. She smiles, and accepts it, and together, they walk towards the station. Alert, and afar.

_Brunch in 15? I’ll bring the orange juice._

_2012/08/28 NATIONAL POST PAGE TWO  
_ _THREE DEAD IN MURDER-SUICIDE OF NEW YORK ALIEN ATTACK VICTIMS  
_ _Early on Tuesday evening, police were called to the residence of Mr Oliver Kenning in Leaside, Toronto, following the sounds of gunshots reported by neighbours, where they were confronted with a dreadful discovery: the bodies of thirty-seven-year-old Oliver Kenning, his six-year-old daughter Isobel, and a young woman believed to be Isobel Kenning’s nanny, twenty-three-year-old Jenna Mackintosh. The Kenning family – Oliver, his wife Allison and at the time five-year-old Isobel – were visiting New York City a little over three months ago when aliens attacked the Manhattan area. Thirty-four-year-old Allison was killed in the attack, leaving behind a grieving husband and daughter. Oliver Kenning had reportedly sought bereavement counselling and treatment for PTSD following the death of his wife through a private facility funded in part by the Maria Stark Foundation. MSF has opened several new branches of their relief aid and support network outside USA following the attack in question, and has helped a significant number of victims, many of whom were not New York City residents. Unfortunately, it seems the available support was not enough to prevent Oliver Kenning from succumbing to his demons, leading to the murder of his daughter and her nanny, before immediately turning the gun on himself. A close friend of the Kenning family who wishes to remain anonymous has stated of Oliver: “He was in a lot of pain. So much pain. But he seemed to be getting better. It’s such a terrible thing to lose a loved one so suddenly, and so terribly, but he had Isobel and he seemed to be getting better. Jenna was a great help; she had been Isobel’s babysitter for years. It’s such a shock, to all of us.” A surge of support for an increase in mental health services has been voiced in light of this terrible incident via social media, highlighting continued underfunding of available services. A full statement from Toronto Police Service is yet to be released._

**fortress**

**hawk**

“Again, Hawk,” Kapanen says, bearing the burden of his own impatience gracelessly.

The Hawk takes a labouring breath, feels the sharp sting of the concrete under his knees, the flat cold of it against his extended palms, and pushes himself upwards. He can feel the muscles in his back tearing abominably, held together by the nipping plates overlapping his skin.

He feels like a sheaf of paper, stapled together and soaked in rainwater. Ripping at the edges, from the inside out.

Tears burn in his eyes and his elbows shake and his thighs clench under his extensive weight and he lets out a terrible, cracking sound from his mouth but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop. Using the last of his momentum with his fingertips, he pushes up, and with a swinging motion he is abruptly kneeling on the ground, unaided by his hands.

The extra weight on his back threatens to pull him the other way. He sways and traps a squeal between his teeth, and somebody laughs, and somebody else hisses in bizarre sympathy, and all the while Kapanen nods at him, as if to say: _Yes, that’s it, you’re doing it right._

“Extend,” Kapanen says expectantly.

“Sir, he doesn’t have the muscle –”

“Yes, he does,” Kapanen snaps without looking away from the Hawk’s stiff shoulders. “We gave them to him. Now, Hawk. _Extend.”_

The Hawk tries not to clench his eyes shut, tries to recall something other than the straining, ripping sensation between his ribs and his spine as he curls his hands into fists, bites his mouth shut, and then, then –

The vast, metal wingspans hooked into the notches of his exo-vertebrae tug upwards, the shards scraping clumsily together where feathers would brush, until, until –

“Yes!” Kapanen bellows, seems unable to prevent himself from leaping to his feet, until he is standing almost entirely in front of the camera that is blinking a bleary red light at the subject. “You see? You see? I told you, I fucking told you –”

A snarling, yelping sound escapes the Hawk’s mouth. His limbs twitch and spasm, all six of them now, like he is a dying insect inverting. He has a flashing, bright memory of a bumblebee, crushed in a hand, and he cries out in alarm as the ground rushes towards him. His hands fly forwards to catch his weight.

Except, so do the wings, just as quick, just as instinctive. They’re bigger, longer, stronger, and his weight crushes into their tips as they dig into the ground, jarring every part of his body where they are tied into place. He feels torn up, suspended by the curled tips of his wings, his hands stretched out before him, and tears pour down his face as he sobs desperately towards the ground.

“Fuck!” shouts someone behind him.

The Hawk writhes against the pairs of hands suddenly hooked under his armpits, around the wings clutched to his spine. As they heave his weight back, his head lolls forwards and his abdominals clench and twitch. He can’t contain the babble of sounds spilling out of his mouth.

“Is it damaged?” Kapanen asks, his eyes wide and worried, and there’s a flurry of fingertips prodding up and down the metal joints that punctuate the Hawk’s spine, connecting the bones inside him to the new, metal bones they’ve attached to his outside.

The Hawk flinches away. The sounds are too loud, he doesn’t know what to do with them all, the ones from others and the ones from himself. He’s frightened, he’s so _frightened, _and he doesn’t know where to look. There’s nobody, no Halford, no Soldier, he doesn’t know where they are. They’ve vanished, or perhaps they never existed.

“I’m telling you,” a voice is saying from somewhere behind the Hawk’s head, “It needs a front brace to counter the balance. We can make it detachable – lightweight. The Soldier took years to develop counter-muscle for the heavier arm. If you want to speed up the process, you’re going to need to make up for the lack of bodily catch-up. The serum is impermanent, it’s working too hard to heal, not grow.”

A hand splays over the Hawk’s chest, fingertips digging into muscle, smoothing down his stomach all the way to the band of the shorts he’s wearing. He pushes into the touch, as much as he can, tries to find something comforting in the softer contact but it’s met with a heavy slap to the back of his head and he ducks away, apologetic murmurs tumbling out of his lips.

“Halford’s spoiling him,” Kapanen says with a snort, just before fingers scratch over the crown of his head.

The Hawk tries to open his eyes, but he’s disoriented. He tries to blink through the salt gum of his eyelashes. He tries to hold his breath. He tries to count the fingers touching his shoulders, his head, his stomach, his hips. He can’t figure out his centre of gravity. He’s swaying, back and forth, around the bruises of his knees.

“Proszę,” he whispers, again and again, and he feels the sour closeness of somebody’s ear near his mouth, listening to the quiet of his stutters.

“How long before check-in?” Kapanen asks. His voice sounds terribly far away, as does the skin sound of snapping fingers.

The response is lost to the pounding of the Hawk’s blood in his veins. He gulps down air. He knows, instinctively, what is about to happen and he is abruptly terrified.

“Proszę!” he shouts, to no avail.

A metal band is shoved mercilessly over his forehead, scrapes past his nose, under his chin. The black clasp of the hood locks around his throat, just tight enough to remind him of it with every gasp. He wrenches open his eyes but he is too late. The hood is in place.

He is utterly blind.

He is utterly deaf.

The hands around his shoulders tighten.

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

The Soldier does not recall exactly what might be considered _routine._

There are only familiar actions. There are instincts ingrained in his muscles.

A weasel mouthed boy of a man holds out a flask and without thinking about it, the Soldier takes it from him and drinks it. He does not know what it tastes of, but when the thick sludge touches his tongue he remembers that what he is tasting is exactly what it tastes like. A doctor with a curling Finnish accent gestures vaguely to a corner of a room and the Soldier does not know what he is going to find, but when he looks over, he knows that the kneeling figure wearing the hood is exactly what he is supposed to find.

The Soldier drops the empty flask with a loud clatter and walks towards the caged quarter of the room. He lets himself inside.

The kneeling figure has metal hooks attached down his spine, plates spreading outwards like large scales overlapping that shift as he moves in the tiniest increments. There are big, steel coloured wings locked into the notches in complex mechanisms. His stomach moves obviously with laboured breaths.

Another unfamiliarly familiar instinct jolts, beginning in the Soldier’s stomach and spreading outwards like heat from a flame all the way to his arms and legs. He kneels in front of the hooded figure, wraps a hand around the back of the Hawk’s neck, and pulls him slightly forwards, until his covered forehead is pressing against the Soldier’s.

The Hawk flinches, then remembers, and stills in the Soldier’s grasp. He smells of tears and sweat and iron.

It is strangely comfortable, and comforting. Kneeling in front of the hooded Hawk, matching his breaths effortlessly, pushing their foreheads together, and even though he cannot see the Hawk’s face, the Soldier knows that the Hawk is calmer than he was before. He is comfortable, and comforted, too.

Kapanen leaves them alone. They all leave them alone.

The Soldier listens to Rumlow talking easily with his two agents. The clack of a weapons check. The bark of laughter. The thumping strides of boots on the stone floor.

He hears one of the technicians say: “Strucker won’t wait much longer, if Halford is going to delay. He has ideas, and she doesn’t even need it anymore.”

He hears somebody else say: “Halford’s a traditionalist. She’d keep us all in the dark ages. Strucker has vision.”

The Hawk shivers, and the Soldier brings a second hand up, to clasp over the junction of shoulder and neck. Metal clutching the Hawk’s clavicle, smoothing it over. The Hawk shivers a second time, only to lean a little more into the Soldier’s sturdy stance. The Hawk is tired.

When the Hawk is tired, the Soldier tells Halford, because Halford listens.

Only, Halford isn’t here.

The Soldier tracks the whereabouts of the others in the room, half-turned as he is. He can hear Rumlow, still. His two agents mumbling.

The Soldier keeps clasp of the Hawk’s neck and leans back, away from him, to look over at Rumlow. Rumlow feels his attention immediately, and looks to him with an inquisitive brow. At the Soldier’s downturned gesture, Rumlow approaches.

“What is it?” he asks through the bars of the cage.

“The Hawk,” the Soldier says. “He’s tired.”

Rumlow is, unaccountably, shocked. His eyes dart between the Soldier’s face and the hood, back and forth rapidly, and a stuttering triplet sound echoes in his throat. Rumlow looks over at Kapanen, then away again, then back.

“Doc,” he says, loud enough to bring Kapanen closer. “The Assets need downtime. Energy conservation’s important out of cryo.”

Kapanen is displeased, the Soldier can see it, and hear it. He grimaces at the Soldier, who stares back expectantly. It is unlikely he will be punished. the Finnish doctor is not good at punishments, and in any case, the Soldier isn’t the one suggesting anything.

Rumlow is a good co-pilot, for lots of reasons.

“Fine,” Kapanen says shortly, flapping a hand at Rumlow. “See to it. I don’t have time for coddling.”

Rumlow nods, and waits until Kapanen has walked away before pointing the Soldier up and away from the Hawk, who flinches towards the abandoning hand the Soldier removes from his neck. The Hawk’s own hands reach and clench and return to his sides in the space of a stretched out moment of confusion.

For a second, they wait, to see what will happen.

Then, Rumlow reaches up and pushes the Soldier’s temple with two fingers, just like he did back in the jet. The Soldier goes, as indicated, and lies down on the side-facing cot in an acceptable rest position, from where he can almost reach the back of the Hawk’s head.

Only then does Rumlow hold a hand up in a firm _Hold Still _gesture, lift one foot and kick, very hard, directly at the side of the Hawk’s face.

“Ah ah ah!”

Rumlow shouts as the Soldier surges upwards, even as the Hawk flails desperately, barely catching himself as he tumbles to the floor. The Soldier freezes, caught between the warring need to protect the Hawk and to follow Rumlow’s command.

The Soldier clasps the side of the cot until it crunches. He stares at Rumlow’s open palm, and he stares at the Hawk lying prone where he was kicked, parallel to the cot on the floor. He is close enough, now, that the Soldier could touch his head, and neck, more easily. The Hawk’s breaths are coming rapid and panicked, his chest heaving as he tenses, awaiting another kick.

“Happy now?” Rumlow asks in a hard, pleasant voice, his eyebrows raised.

Rumlow has never, ever harmed the Soldier. Rumlow is in charge, and that means he is in charge of the Soldier.

This is still true. This remains, and the Soldier knows it, and so does Rumlow. On the ground, the Hawk trembles, clutching at his own fingers. He’s on his front, and his wings are folded around him, and his fear is a physical barrier between him and the rest of the world. Between him and Rumlow. Between him and the Soldier.

“If he’s tired, he’ll sleep,” Rumlow says, cheerful, and dangerous, and enjoying himself.

The laziest, most dangerous predator in the jungle.

He leaves the cage, closes the barrier behind him with a snap and saunters easily away, cool strength and ready confidence. His agents’ eyes are wide as they watch.

The Soldier lies on the cot, as he’d been instructed. He reaches with a flesh rough hand, out, slowly, to the back of the Hawk’s neck. Squeezes against the Hawk’s flinch, holds tight for an hour, and then two. Until the Hawk’s muscles loosen, and his breaths regulate, and he is, between one terrified moment and the next, asleep.

The Soldier does not sleep.

He lies on the cot, and wonders at its familiarity, and at the way one of the Hawk’s hands reach up to take hold of his wrist, loosely curl around the hard bone and tendons. He listens to Kapanen’s instructions for his technicians, and Rumlow’s orders for his men. He searches for some secret mention of Halford again, but none become apparent.

The Hawk sleeps.

The Soldier watches.

Training begins much the way training has begun before.

The Soldier has done this countless times.

He stands on a mat, wearing minimal gear, and no weapons. He needs none, because he is a weapon, too.

The Hawk stands more easily than the Soldier remembers. There are three metal bands curling around the Hawk’s torso, bruising tight against his flush skin. His wings are wide, and perfectly balanced. They are weapons, too. Jagged at the edges, sharp enough to cut, heavy enough to smash.

They stand opposite each other on the mats.

Kapanen is there, outside the ring. Beside him, a gleeful Meisner.

There are others, too, but the Soldier does not know them, so they must not matter. There is no Halford.

The Soldier wonders if Halford is dead.

The Soldier wonders at the burst of unpleasant sorrow he feels in the back of his throat, whenever he thinks of such a possibility.

The Hawk is lean, steely. His eyes are a blank, frosty shade of blue. He’s stronger than he was, and quieter. He holds himself as if he was nothing more nor less than the vicious unfold of his biting wings. There is a mottled bruise on his cheekbone and a handprint on his throat.

The Soldier thinks, perhaps, he gave them to the Hawk.

(The Soldier wonders at the burst of unpleasant sorrow he feels in the back of his throat, whenever he thinks of such a possibility.)

“Again,” Kapanen says.

Meisner hates him, the Soldier can tell.

There is a man standing on Kapanen’s other side. He holds himself more importantly than a lot of others do. He watches more intently and he listens more closely and he does not flinch at anything. Not at the pounding shriek when the Soldier’s metal fist makes impact with the barrier of the Hawk’s wing, not at the spray of blood when the corner of the same wing slices all the way up the Soldier’s thigh.

When the Soldier has hold of the Hawk’s throat, and the top of a wing bent in his grip, and they are thrashing in a deliberate stalemate that won’t be appeased, and the Hawk’s breathing is painful and the Soldier’s blood is pungent, the man standing on Kapanen’s other side simply says: “She is old school, isn’t she?”

Kapanen nods, and so does Meisner. The difference is, Kapanen looks proud, and Meisner looks pained.

“Release,” Kapanen says, and they do.

The Hawk rolls away, and the Soldier stands upright. Blood speckles the mat. The Hawk’s face is half purpled.

The man says: “I’ve found some volunteers. We can use them, in the meantime. They’re not obsolete yet.”

The Hawk doesn’t look away from the Soldier, even when Meisner approaches from his left. The Soldier doesn’t look away, either. They watch each other’s every move. Commit it to memory, without knowing exactly why. The Hawk’s hair is dark gold, soaked with sweat, and the Soldier inexplicably feels empty-handed with the need to run fingers through it.

His heart is pounding.

He is, quite suddenly, aware of it, buried in the grave inside his chest.

**washington d.c., new york**

**captain america**

It’s supposed to get easier, Steve’s been told. That’s what they all say, the experts and the amateurs. Practice makes permanent, and all that. If he gets up and gets on with his day enough times, one day, it will be natural to do so. It won’t make him feel like he’s being plunged into the freezing ocean with every breath.

He wakes up at a little after four in the morning, shakes the sweat of the dream from his brow, tugs on some clothes and goes for a run. It shouldn’t take eighteen kilometres for him to _catch _his breath, but that’s the way of his body, these days. He doesn’t miss how a flight of stairs used to be a risky endeavour, but hell, if he doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with this kind of energy when there’s no war to burn it off.

Steve returns to his apartment, quickly showers, dresses, and leaves as soon as he can. He passes his new neighbour on the stairs – a nurse, youngish and pretty, pleasant to talk to and the most kindly uninterested person to pointedly not pretend she doesn’t know who he is.

“Steve,” he’d introduced himself with a handshake, and she’d replied, “Yeah, I figured. I’m Sharon.”

That had been the end of it.

This time, as he hurries down the corridor, she offers him nothing more than the tip of an imaginary hat, and he returns the gesture absent-mindedly.

When he exits his building, his attention is immediately pulled to the woman standing on the sidewalk, waiting with all the grace of a very smug cat, holding two takeout cups of coffee. They’re still steaming, so she can’t have been waiting all that long, but she makes a display of _finally _in the way she hands him one that makes him smile.

“Thanks,” he says.

“No problem,” Natasha replies.

It’s barely gone six in the morning. The sky is a bleak, pinkish blue. The moon is big, half full, ghostly; the sun is barely rising. They walk together, more slowly than either of them cares to, and drink their coffee. Steve assumes they will eventually end up at the Triskelion, but he’s prepared to follow Natasha’s lead all the same.

Her hair is back to its usual red, and Steve refrains from telling her it looks better that way, even though it makes him feel oddly relieved to see her in her signature shade. He also refrains from asking how she is, because she has kindly offered him the same courtesy.

“Did Tony send you an invite to a birthday party for Pepper?” Steve asks, a few blocks into their stroll.

“Mhmm,” Natasha replies, a dimpling smile on her face.

“I thought her birthday wasn’t for another –”

“It’s a ‘surprise’ birthday,” Natasha drawls, sounding pitying. “Tony thinks he has a better chance of surprising her if he gives her a surprise party several months ahead of schedule. It’s mostly an excuse for Tony to buy, give out and drink a lot of booze without Pepper calling him out on it.”

Steve would like to think this is Natasha’s particular brand of harsh judgement, and not an accurate indictment of how Tony’s doing. It’s been a few weeks since he last spoke to either Pepper or Tony. He knows he could do better – _should _do better – but there’s something aggressively uncomfortable about being in the same room as Tony Stark, these days.

Maybe it’s the resurgence of old memories, making themselves unpleasantly known in dreams masquerading as nightmares. Maybe it’s how every other sentence that comes out of Tony’s mouth reminds him of Howard, while everything else he says makes Steve wonder if he ever really knew Howard at all. The dichotomy of the man Steve remembers and the man who raised Tony is too much, at times.

He’s pretty sure the dichotomy of himself and the man Howard told Tony about is too much for Stark, sometimes, too.

“Have you made any headway with the missing analyst?” Steve asks, rather than address Natasha’s unconcerned concerns. He watches her sip her coffee, matching his steps like a dance as they turn a corner, heading in the direction of the river.

Natasha hasn’t asked for further help, but he knows she hasn’t dropped her search for Barton, whatever promises she made SHIELD in order to get reinstated as an active field agent. He likes to think she would ask, if she needed it, but sometimes he isn’t sure. He knows she’s trying not to get him into any further trouble, after their failed attempts to reach the Kennings before disaster struck them.

He appreciates her thoughtfulness, but he doesn’t need it.

“If he’s still alive, he’s still in Europe,” she says dryly. “Six are good at covering their tracks, and they’re suspicious enough of SHIELD to make information sharing difficult. I’m not convinced it’s connected to Hawkeye.”

“But you’re still looking?”

Natasha looks at him. In the sunlight, her eyes are almost yellow, fresh and clear. She’s so good at looking unknowing, at looking like she’s thinking nothing at all. Steve envies that sort of control, that innate ability to wipe herself clean of any tells.

A snide, ugly part of him, though, is all too aware he doesn’t envy whatever life must be lived, to cultivate that kind of cleverness.

“There’s nowhere else to look,” she tells him.

It’s a devastating reality. One that shouldn’t be so easily spoken in the early hours of dawn, over strong coffee, under pale skies. She shouldn’t look so indifferent to the hopelessness of her situation. It coils Steve’s insides, and he reigns in the urge he feels to take hold of her, her hand or her arm, her neck, her face. Some part of her that might be comforted, the way her heart won’t be.

Steve doesn’t need to see what lies behind that clearest, cleanest of masks. He’s felt it all before. Feels it every time he wakes up.

“I’ve told Fury if he wants to send you out with the ALPHA’s, I’m going with you.”

That makes Steve’s brows rise. He takes a burning gulp of coffee to hide his surprise, but Natasha’s already seen it.

“Why?”

“Because Rumlow’s an asshole, and I don’t like you relying on them.”

Steve wants to ask what she knows, or has seen, that has planted that distrust in Rumlow, who by all accounts from Steve’s experience is a competent, well-disciplined agent. Rough around the edges, perhaps, but a strong ally nonetheless.

“How so?” he asks.

Unsurprisingly, he’s met with nothing more than a reproachful smirk from Natasha.

“You need to give me more than that, Romanoff,” Steve says with some measure of impatience, wincing at the sharp use of her surname. Natasha glances at him, and her expression remains anybody’s guess. “Please,” he adds guiltily.

Natasha twists her lips around whatever she would like to say first, and Steve is struck by the dizzying force of familiarity. He hears, distantly, a drawling shade of Brooklyn charm say: _What, you don’t like? _Lips twisting over themselves as if to bite back everything but amusement, hiding a well of otherness from sight.

His breath catches in his chest, and he looks away just in time for Natasha to say: “Rumlow and Clint never got along. I never knew the full story – but I trust Clint’s instincts.”

There are a lot of possible responses to that, Steve thinks, as his feet scrape the sidewalk, and the roads steadily busy about them. The present tense confidence, or the way thirdhand instinct really isn’t the same, or how people wouldn’t get anywhere without second chances to prove themselves.

He could argue, or he could agree, or he could shrug indifferently. He could take hold of her hand and squeeze it in solidarity, and remind her: _I’m here, I’m right here, trustworthy as I know how to be._

“Ok,” he says instead. “What are you wearing to Pepper’s birthday party, then?”

“Why, you want to be my date?” Natasha asks with a prominent smirk.

“Sure,” Steve replies with an open grin. “Least you can do is save me the hassle of Tony trying to set me up with another journalist.”

Natasha laughs, muttering _asshole_, perhaps at Steve or perhaps at Tony’s misdirected sense of humour. Perhaps both.

“Why not,” she says, and she snugly fits her hand around Steve’s elbow as they walk. She’s warm, and strong, and she steers him east, in the opposite direction to the Triskelion, which isn’t quite in view yet. “Have you been suit shopping in the twenty-first century yet? It’s awful. Let’s find you something nice and blue.”

He doesn’t mean to lean into her grip, but it happens all the same. It’s easy, is the thing. He’s pliant in her care, and she is sturdy in his. Steve feels, abruptly, like he is balancing on a tree branch just shy of too thin to bear his weight. He feels like the branch, just shy of snapping, too.

He finishes his coffee, dropping it in the next trashcan they pass. His warm fingers graze over Natasha’s, a reminder, and a rejoinder. She squeezes his elbow in return, and lets go of him easily.

Their arms brush as they walk, side by side.

Steve catches his breath, for the second time.

**fortress**

**hawk**

He blinks again, and again. A fourth time. A fifth.

Halford doesn’t disappear.

He looks to his left, and sees the man with the eyeglass, his arms folded. He looks to his right, and sees Kapanen, beaming proudly. He doesn’t want to look forwards, but he does, because he must. He looks forward, to Halford, who stands a little to one side, looking for all the world as if she never left. She’s staring at a hologram lit up in front of her, a hazy shade of blue, the myriad pixels making up a set of flexing, beating wings.

“You see?” she says, indicating the ridged bone arcs with a manicured nail. “Much stronger, and it will take less to get them airborne. We programme the maintenance into them both, and we’re set for years to come.”

The eyeglass man sneers.

“There is always room for _human _error,” he says, and his head nudges to Halford’s other side.

Her other side, where through the blur of the hologram, the Hawk can see the Soldier, locked into the chair. He, too, is staring through the hologram, back at the Hawk. He is as still as a predator in wait, as if he cannot feel the restraints holding him down.

Halford scoffs, loudly, proudly.

“Human error is predictable, Mr von Strucker,” she retorts with an arched brow. “Easily contained. Easily corrected. Magic, is not.”

“We fear only what we don’t understand,” the man, von Strucker, replies. “One day, we won’t need soldiers and pets.”

The Hawk glances at her face, and at von Strucker’s. He glances at the Soldier, arrested by the magnet of his own gaze. He is frightened, he realises, to see the Soldier tied down. He is frightened, without the hand biting into his neck.

“Doctor Kapanen,” Halford says with a sweet, toothy smile. “Commence programming. We’ll start with the Soldier, then the Hawk. Afterwards, feel free to give Mr von Strucker all the manpower and equipment he needs. While he’s playing with magic toys, I’ll be furthering our cause.”

Kapanen takes a deliberate step towards the Soldier, and the Hawk feels a clench in his gut. The Soldier blinks heavily, opening his mouth when prompted, biting down into the rubber guard that is pushed between his lips. A hand pushes at the back of his neck, and the Hawk goes to his knees cleanly, quietly, the way that does not get them into trouble.

Halford smiles at him, and it’s easy, then, to breathe.

The machination of the chair whirs to life, and the Soldier does not blink, and the Hawk bites his tongue until blood runs down his throat.

He memorises the cadence of the Soldier’s screams.

When he flinches, he feels the clumsy movement of the wings clutching at his back. He looks at Halford’s hologram, and the Soldier’s bucking torso, and the hunger in von Strucker’s face.

He is afraid.

The Hawk wakes up, ready to comply.


	3. 2012 Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friends,
> 
> My apologies for the delayed update! It's been a mess trying to wrangle these characters into co-operating coherently. I'm sorry there's not really any Soldier PoV here, he was incredibly non-forthcoming.
> 
> **Important Things**: Check the updated tags. There's some temporary Steve/Natasha here, which will probably offend somebody - if you are that somebody, please click away, I really don't mind. For those of you that continue, please know it will remain temporary. The endgame here is still Clint/Natasha and Bucky/Steve.
> 
> Also, there is some unpleasant content, including thinly veiled implications of sexual abuse, reference to miscarriage and the murder of a child (non-graphic).
> 
> Finally, feel free to fix my Polish and/or Russian if it's wrong. I won't be offended.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, those that do!
> 
> Keep safe and sane, be very good to each other in these terrible times.
> 
> LRCxx

**(Part Three – Search)**

**2012**

**hydra quadrant sokovia north**

**dr. halford**

In her childhood bedroom of her father’s house, Charlotta kept three of her most prized possessions in pride of place on her windowsill.

The first was a framed photograph of her parents standing next to the US President and First Lady. The President and her father were shaking hands, smiling at one another proudly. Her mother looked even prettier than the First Lady.

The second was a small, remote control mannequin she had built from scratch for a school science fair. She hadn’t placed in the competition, on the grounds that it was quite clear no eleven year old would have been capable of building something so complex without extra help.

However, as her incensed father had later pointed out when he discovered the slight against his daughter and confronted the board of governors, what they really meant was _no child who wasn’t a Stark. _She had particularly enjoyed the moment, in her Principal’s office, when her father had quoted four separate articles regarding how enamoured the country had always been with the prodigal prodigy Anthony Stark, followed swiftly by the USA’s latent STEM statistics over female contribution to scientific advancement.

The third item on her childhood windowsill was a solid bronze casting of a statue of the Ancient Greek hero, Bellerophon, accompanied by the winged steed Pegasus. It was a gift from her grandmother. It was also, she would later reflect, a keystone item of her destiny.

Charlotta Halford still has all three items in her possession.

The photograph is in an album on one of the shelves of her flat in London. The robot is part of a collection of keepsakes she left in D.C.

The statue, she keeps on her desk in her office in the North Sokovian Base.

Sitting there, now, she reaches out to run the tip of her index finger lightly over the ridge of one of Pegasus’ arched wings. The are majestic, even in miniature. A noble creature already, made more valiant than any before it, or any that followed.

The trouble, of course, with giving wings to a being not built for flight isn’t the skeletal abnormalities at risk. It isn’t the shifted centre of gravity. It isn’t even the disproportionate muscle groups. These are all obstacles that have solutions, and workarounds, and occasionally even cheat codes, if one simply knows how to read them.

No, the real issue is _mass. _It’s _bone density._

How do you rewrite a person’s very DNA, their molecules? How do you make them stronger _and _lighter? How do you add metal to their frames, and then expect them to remain airborne?

Halford traces the curve of Pegasus’ rearing spine.

With any luck, she’s about to find out.

She looks up at the knock on the open door across the room to see Matthews standing in the doorway.

He’s not the worst agent HYDRA’s shipped out from its SHIELD stock. A little wet behind the ears, but he’s young, eager, and quick to snap to attention. There’s a cluster of white scars around his mouth that are still stiff, judging by his speech patterns.

“Ma’am,” Matthews says.

“Let him in,” Halford replies, clasping her fingers together on her desk and crossing her legs.

The man who enters at Matthews’ gesture is tall, lean and handsome – three things he had certainly not been the first time they met.

“Mr Killian,” Halford says with a polite smile, nodding at Matthews to close the door behind her guest.

Aldrich Killian clearly expects Halford to stand and shake his hand.

It’s truly astounding, she thinks to herself, what a little cosmetic overhaul can do for a man’s ego. In her experience, men’s vanity has always far exceeded that of women.

Halford points him briskly to a seat without ceremony. She is not one of Killian’s clients to schmooze and fawn, nor is she one of Killian’s lackeys. She is his primary investor, his font of resources, and as such, he is here to please _her. _Not the other way around.

“I trust you received my present,” she says, as Killian smooths his flawless suit an angles his neck like a peacock.

“Very generous,” he says with a tick of defiance that Halford looks forward to one day stamping out. “Thank you.”

“You have what I requested?”

Killian lifts a briefcase and places it on her desk. It’s locked by a passcode. Killian reaches over to enter the digits – _4 – 2 – 9 – 5 – _and it immediately pops open. Inside are several iced sachets and a sealed lockbox. The sachets are full of a clear liquid, and marked only with serial numbers.

“Inside the lockbox are data files. Everything you need to know about our development process, our suggestions for improvement. The risk analysis.”

This last, Killian says with a certain dry humour that does not amuse Halford in the slightest. She looks up to meet Killian’s pointed gaze coolly. She is not accustomed to being sassed, and raises her eyebrows to make as much clear.

“Dr Halford,” Killian says, and though he tries for a smirk, his voice wavers uncertainly. He knows precisely everything that he’s risking. Perhaps he even understands that it’s at her leisure that he will walk out of here alive. “We’ve advanced way beyond this product. Our latest tests –”

“I have no use for your exploding soldiers, Aldrich,” Halford replies frostily, snapping the briefcase shut and locking it once more. It slides under her desk, a perfect fit, out of sight. When she looks back up again, Killian is shifting uncomfortably. “I have my own methods of accelerated healing and trust me, they are a lot more reliable than your injected ACME.”

It’s a pleasure, watching him squirm. Halford indulges herself just long enough to stand up, move to the water cooler in the corner and pour them two cups, and return to her seat with a flourish. Killian accepts his cup with a twitch of a smile of thanks that looks more like she’s offered him the chance to lick her shoes.

“What I would like to know,” Halford continues, “Is whether or not electrical currents would interfere with the modifications.”

Killian does a poor job of masking his surprised confusion. He takes an extra large gulp of water to compensate, promptly coughing and spluttering.

Halford glances at her watch less than discreetly.

“Well,” Killian says, a little hoarsely. He trying for thoughtful, but it’s a little closer to flailing for answers. “There’s no reason it would inhibit or reverse the effects of the drug, assuming you weren’t planning on exposing the subject to electrical currents _during _the intravenous stage.”

Halford nods to show her understanding.

Killian, bolstered by her encouragement, sits up a little straighter again and drags some of that smarm back into his face.

“Although, as you’ll see in our documentation, we were forced to abandon this project due to the high levels of osteoporosis the subjects would sustain. I’d say that, were you expecting to repeatedly expose the subject to electrical currents, you’d be looking at having to treat multiple fractures or even breaks every time you introduced them to the electrical exposure.”

_That _would be annoying, Halford thinks irritably. Even with enhanced healing, it would be a complete waste of time if they had to repeat a wipe…

“Did you try to treat the osteoporosis?” she asks.

Killian shakes his head.

“Given our particular goals, it wasn’t worth the additional cost of further trials. We’re looking for something that will strengthen our subjects, not weaken them.”

“So it could be treatable?”

Killian does, at least, seem to give this some thought. He places his mostly empty cup of water onto the edge of her desk, sitting with his elbows on his knees to lean closer. When he isn’t posturing, Halford has to concede, he’s actually got quite a pleasant face.

“I’m no expert, but I know osteoporosis isn’t curable. Yet. Best I could suggest is finding some sort of supplement. Fluoride helps with bone density, but it doesn’t prevent fractures. I’m not sure what else to suggest. I’m sorry.”

He almost sounds it.

Halford shakes her head anyway.

“No matter,” she says with a dismissive wipe of her hand across the desk top. “Thank you for dealing with this matter personally, Mr Killian. It’s vital that we keep this between ourselves.”

“Always a pleasure, Dr Halford,” Killian says, standing up.

This time, Halford stands too. She offers her hand and Killian shakes it once, firmly.

“You should come visit our AIM laboratories next time you’re in the States,” he says as he makes his way back towards the door, buttoning his blazer. “We have some shiny new toys that might even impress _you.”_

Halford doubts it, and she makes her opinion known with a delicate snort.

“Perhaps, Mr Killian. Good luck with your next trials. I look forward to seeing the results of your work.”

“Doc,” Killian retorts with a neat little bow, almost sarcastic, but for the trill of excitement in his tone. “You’re gonna love it.”

Halford hums, waiting until he’s left the room to sit back down.

Matthews reaches inside, nodding sincerely at her as he swings the door back closed again.

Halford reaches under her desk and pulls the briefcase back out. There are six sachets inside. When she presses lightly on one with a finger, a faint purplish glow seems to ripple through the viscous liquid. Excitement rattles in her throat as she takes a steadying breath.

Closing the briefcase again, Halford reaches into the third drawer of her desk and pulls out her D.C. phone.

It rings for almost a full minute before –

_“Is there a problem?”_

Halford can’t help the sharp laugh that catches in her throat.

“Lovely to hear your voice, too,” she replies. “So glad I called.”

_“You met with that AIM shit stain today. It’s not an unfair assumption that something went wrong.”_

She can just imagine the expression on her father’s face as he grumbles it, and it makes her laugh again.

“Well, I’m quite alright,” she reassures him. “He delivered the package, we’re good to go.”

_“What do you need?”_

“Everything there is to know about osteoporosis and its treatments.”

There’s a drawn out sigh down the phone.

_“Give me the day to find someone. It might take a while to get them to you.”_

“I have time,” she says brusquely. “I have plenty of time. We’re only in the early stages, and I have Killian on a leash for another few months at least. Is there anything you need from me, while I’ve got the space?”

In the breathy silence that follows, she knows the answer will be yes.

_“We’re going to need the Asset here. Soon. Rogers and Romanoff are turning into quite the troublesome double act these days. They’re going to find something worth looking into soon if we don’t cut them off at the pass.”_

Halford’s grip tightens on her phone. She feels herself sitting straighter in her seat in alarm. She doesn’t like sending the Soldier to the States. It always feels like a risk not worth taking. Almost every time something’s gone wrong on a mission on record, it’s been while he was over there.

A familiar flash of protectiveness rushes through her.

“I strongly advise against the Asset crossing paths with Steve Rogers,” she says decidedly.

_“No, no, nothing like that, kiddo,” _her father replies. _“I need it to get to the root of the problem before Rogers and Romanoff do. One job, that’s all. Two bodies, three at most. In and out.”_

Halford nods reluctantly, before clearing her throat.

“Alright. I’m returning to the capital tomorrow. Send me a time frame and I’ll have him sent to you.”

_“Thanks, Charlotte,” _her father says with warm sincerity.

Halford doesn’t quite twitch at the name. It had broken her father’s heart, when she left to live with her mother after the divorce; shattered it further still when she changed her name, not to mention everything else about her. The least he should be able to do is call her by her given name.

“Anything I can do to help, Secretary Pierce,” she retorts with a teasing snicker.

Her father gives a good-natured mutter of admonishment before ending the call.

Halford drops the phone back into her desk, pushing the drawer shut with a flick of her foot and stretching her arms over her head. As she rolls out the tense muscles in her neck, her hand re-finds the curved bronze wings of Pegasus. She strokes the ridges of the feathers lightly.

“Matthews,” she says, loudly enough to be heard through the door.

Matthews pokes his head in.

“Yes, Dr Halford?” he asks in his young, eager, attentive voice.

“I’m heading back early. Scramble the jet, will you?”

Matthews nods, spluttering a confirmation before hurrying away.

Halford, despite herself, snorts loudly, closing her eyes and tipping her head back to wait.

She wasn’t lying, after all. She’s got all the time in the world.

**manhattan, new york city**

**captain america**

It’s been almost six months since Steve Rogers woke up in the twenty-first century, and things are going about as badly as he’d expected they would from the moment he found out that the Dodgers had moved out of Brooklyn.

It’s not all bad, truth be told.

He has a nice enough apartment in Washington D.C., an ostentatious gilded cage of an apartment in Stark Tower – _Avengers Tower, _that is, these days – in Manhattan, a hefty post-war pay packet from the US military and a well thought out contract with SHIELD, formerly the SSR Division.

He has been introduced to the internet, although honestly he still enjoys the feel of a book in his hands. He’s eaten a wider range of foods in the past month alone than he’d had in the first twenty-six years of his _life. _He’s pretty lonely, most of the time, but he’s not _alone._

It’s been a long stretch of more than three months since the Battle of New York, and Steve seems to have accumulated twice as many questions as he’s had answered.

His curiosity has been left largely unsatisfied – _You’re a dead cat, Steven Rogers! _Bucky used to say, every left turn Steve would take them on – and the truth is, he’s starting to worry he doesn’t actually want an answer to most of his questions.

Instead of asking, he keeps them and his company as much to himself as he can.

If Bucky were still around, there’d have been no getting away with it. However, as is inescapably apparent every second of every day: _Bucky isn’t here._

It’s with an indulgently heavy heart that Steve Rogers opts to skip lunch again in favour of a few extra rounds with the sturdiest punching bags on the market, installed almost two months ago after yet another mysterious crack appeared in the wall on the other side of the room from the boxing gear.

_Really, it’s a gift to myself, _Tony had said at the time. _If I have to replace one more set you’ve pulverised, I’m going to be forced to book some PT appointments for my RSS._

Steve hadn’t pointed out there’d be no need, if Tony simply allowed another of his overqualified engineers to fix the machinery instead of insisting on doing it himself. It’s not as if he’d miss the money – it’s simply that Tony’s a lot touchier about who he lets into the personal quarters of the Tower than he seems to want to admit.

It’s not worth the argument, really. Tony Stark is prickly on his best days, and Steve’s lived in his own glass house long enough by now to know better than to throw the first stone about those kinds of hang-ups. Besides, it’s not just the exertion of controlled violence Steve is craving when he goes to the gymnasium. He enjoys the entire ritual of it, including stringing up a new heavy bag every hour or so.

Wrapping and unwrapping his hands. Setting up and taking down the equipment. Warming up, warming down. The shower, the cool off. Rinse and repeat hour after hour. It’s an easy replacement for other, long lost rituals.

Watching Bucky scowl down at his feet while gathering up for a fight. Cleaning out a cut on his bruised face. Laughing at the hot blush under his cheek. Catching his swollen bottom lip between his finger and thumb, then between his teeth. Bucky, heavy, all hands and thighs, strength and gentility.

Steve punches the bag hard enough to creak the hinges as it swings out and, gasping, he takes a step back to watch it pendulum back and forth in long, deep arcs. Sweat tickles over his face, like unforgotten fingertips trailing down to his jawline.

He closes his eyes, breathes in through his nose and imagines the smell of cologne, spoiled by sweat and smog.

The undeniable, inconceivable hollow in Steve’s chest expands and contracts with his lungs.

He misses him. Bucky. _Bucky. _James Barnes. He misses Bucky in a way he misses nothing else. He can feel it consuming him, an invisible python coiling all about him, constricting his breath. Six months without him, or sixty-six years, depending on who’s asking. Steve still wakes up with his hand outstretched.

_The dignity of his choice, _Peggy had called it, and Steve had conceded, hadn’t the strength to tell her that most times, it hadn’t ever really felt like a choice at all, not for Steve, maybe not for Bucky either. It hadn’t so much been a choice as an instinct. Reaching out for Bucky hadn’t felt all that different to putting his hands out in front of him when falling over.

Self-preservation of the highest order. They knew what they needed, the both of them. They knew _who _they needed.

Steve holds the bag steady in front of him, his forehead on the sealed seam.

He tries his best to avoid wondering what the hell Bucky would think of the fixes he’s getting himself into these days, but sometimes Buck’s voice is so loud in his head it’s like he’s back in their Brooklyn apartment, shouting from room to room about a paint splash on his shirt, or why the soap has been stained that weird shade of yellow _again._

_“If you are in need of a partner that will fight back, you need only ask, Captain,” _a deep voice says from the doorway, abruptly loud and close. Steve turns his flinch neatly into a quick about-turn, his back to the punching bag to face his visitor.

Thor’s arms are crossed over his chest, but his face is gentle, almost smiling as he steps into the room.

“I didn’t realise you were back so soon,” Steve says honestly.

Thor gives a humble gesture that might, on a lesser man, look like a shrug.

“Asgard is safe in my father’s rule. My mother has little need of me and my brother has nothing but embittered jibes through the barrier of his cell for me. I suspected I could be of more use elsewhere.”

Steve doesn’t enjoy the intelligent twinkle in Thor’s galaxy eyes, however there’s little sense in avoiding it. He nods his head to one side and begins unwrapping his hands.

“Thanks for the offer,” he concedes to a smile from Thor.

“You are troubled, Captain Rogers. The hunt for our missing archer has not proved fruitful.”

Steve knows it’s not a criticism, but caught off-guard, sweat-soaked and breathless with the phantom itch of Bucky’s hand on the back of his neck, he’s feeling too vulnerable not to grimace.

“Natasha and I tracked down a lead. Little girl and her father. SHIELD’s not too keen on pursuing civilian eye witnesses. They seem to think it’ll bring unwanted attention to the family.”

“Will it?” Thor asks.

Steve pauses, looking up, surprised by the frankness of the question. The question that honestly? Steve hadn’t put enough weight to.

“No,” he says, defensively at first, then more surely. “No. Romanoff is discreet. We could approach without anybody knowing. This isn’t bringing down a full inquisition on a grieving family, this is. Asking a question. I’m sure, if they knew they could, they would want to help.”

Even as he says it, he knows how damn naïve he sounds.

Thor’s responding smile is a little sad, a little knowing. It’s almost, _almost _pitying.

“I can’t pretend to know all there is to know about Midgardians,” he says gravely. “But I know this: they can prove to be astonishingly selfless in some ways, and equally selfish in others. Often is very surprising ways.”

It doesn’t take an Asgardian deity to tell Steve as much. He’s seen it first hand, hasn’t he?

He’s seen a small, hungry child offer a slice of bread to an injured foreign soldier. He’s seen a man shoot to wound, first, for nothing more than the sick pleasure of watching his victim suffer. He’s seen an entire village rally to protect a single individual and he’s seen another village rally to cast one out.

Humanity is fragile, fickle, feeble; perhaps even forsaken. But Steve has to believe in the best of them.

When he’s Captain America, he can _expect _the best of humanity, but Steve? Steve Rogers? He can only cling to the hope of it. He can only remind himself that he once asked six exhausted, beaten down, overworked men to stand with him and instead of turning aside in sought of much-deserved peace, every single one of them said _yes. _That three months ago he told a worn out, suffering Clint Barton to _suit up _and he did it, no questions asked.

He can remind himself that he made a promise to Abraham Erskine, and he’ll keep it to his last breath.

Steve busies himself unhooking the heavy bag and fetching a bottle of water, so he doesn’t quite have to look at Thor as he responds.

“Barton stood by us, when he had every right to sit out the fight. I can’t let him down.”

There is pause, before Thor speaks in a heavy, thoughtful tone.

“Is this really about Barton, or are you mistaking what you owe the archer for something, or someone, else?”

There is fragment of Steve’s attention, of his mind and his soul, that will always, every second of every day, be clinging to the side of that train, watching Bucky’s hands grasp the empty air as he plummets out of sight.

It surges up inside him, now. A colossal force of failure. The soft-hearted smile Bucky gave him on the clifftop as they waited. The hot press of Bucky’s forehead on the back of his neck the night before. The sheer, unadulterated terror in Bucky’s eyes right before the metal gave way.

Steve’s eyes sting as he chokes on his intake of breath, and he throws the bag too hard towards the open storage container. His fists clench by his sides and, before he can say anything, there’s a heavy steering hand on his shoulder than makes him recoil.

Thor doesn’t let go, though, and when Steve turns there is nothing but understanding in his face.

“There is no shame in it,” he says sincerely, perhaps mistakenly, because Steve really rather thinks there is.

Is that what he’s doing? Is he simply substituting his guilt over Bucky’s death for a futile hunt for Agent Barton?

More importantly, why is a god from an entirely other planet the first person to even suggest it to him?

“It’s the right thing to do,” Steve says, and maybe there’s an uptick of a question mark in his voice, and maybe it’s actually comforting when Thor nods slowly.

“It is,” he agrees. “An alternative motive does not make your actions impure, Captain. I hope you realise, however, that if that is the case, finding Barton isn’t going to bring you the peace you are seeking.”

It’s a damning blow, and Steve’ neck bows under the strength of it.

He’s right. It’s a terrible burden of a truth, but a truth nonetheless. Finding Barton isn’t going to change what happened. Despite whatever modicum of guilt will be alleviated by knowing they’ve brought Hawkeye back safely into the fold, at the end of the day, Bucky will still be dead, and Steve will still have let it happen on his watch.

“You know, Steve,” Thor continues, tugging lightly at Steve’s shoulder before letting go and leading the way out of the gym. It’s better, Steve thinks, hearing his own name and not his rank. Easier. “You and I have both made clear our intentions are to protect this delicate earth, but I confess I still do not know much about it. I could map out in my mind every inch of Asgard for you, yet Midgard remains something of a mystery to me. I should like to know it better.”

It’s one of the least subtle offers Steve’s ever heard, and he chuckles as he follows Thor out to the elevator.

What else should he expect from someone walking around in armour and a cape?

“If you don’t mind waiting half an hour, I’d be happy to join you in your exploration.”

Thor’s generous, booming laugh is graciously welcoming. He slaps Steve’s shoulder as they enter the elevator.

“I should be happy to,” he agrees. “I was given a fortuitous lecture from Stark on the grave pitfalls of something called _Hawaiian Pizza _when I arrived earlier today. I believe it was his intention to warn me against a particular evil, but I confess he has only succeeded in tempting me to sample it.”

Steve grins. He had a similar lecture from Tony a while ago, but hasn’t gotten around to breaking that particular code of conduct and actually trying it.

“Sounds good to me,” he says. “JARVIS, can you drop us at my floor?”

_“Certainly, Captain,” _JARVIS replies.

After a moment’s pause, Steve adds, looking at the side of Thor’s face: “Thank you.”

Thor’s galaxy eyes are full to the brim with a noticeable, warm delight. He grins heartily, and slaps Steve’s back in comradery, and doesn’t press the issue any further.

Steve feels something like a smile embedded into his face, against his will. He’s lonely, yes, in ways he cannot possibly quantify.

But he is, increasingly, very far from alone.

**the castle**

**hawkeye**

It’s been somewhere between two weeks and twelve years since he got here.

Two weeks to twelve years since he arrived in this shithole with its tasers and choke collars and protein shakes and hose downs, the ominous glow of technology and magic and the wailing metal sounds of scraping and scouring and suffering. Metal in his skull and pen marks on his skin.

Clint is very much done with it.

It’s getting all too easy to fall asleep.

Somewhere down the line, Clint started nodding off, and he doesn’t know how to stop. He’s been stripped away, more than just the clothes on his back, more than the solitary respite he once endured in the battered silence of his everyday existence.

He listens to the sounds of the world.

Rather, he listens to the sounds of his world, the way he has not listened since he was eight years old. Reluctantly, perfectly, in perpetuity.

He has the atrocious feeling, resting like a tumour against his heart, hurting his laboured chest, that he’s not the same man he was when he got here. He thinks, quite possibly, he’s forgotten things he once knew with certainty.

Clint knows this: he is alone, alone but for a guard dog with blue eyes and a metal arm. A guard dog who is a soldier, a _Soldier,_ one who protects Clint from all manner of evils, but not the evils he fears the most.

Clint knows that the people holding him captive are HYDRA. He knows that a less foolish man would be more afraid of them than he is. Clint knows he needs to go home. He knows there are people waiting for him at home. At home, his home, a person who is waiting for him, looking for him. He knows what it feels like, waiting for someone who never comes back, he can’t do that to her, he won’t do that to her.

Nat. Natasha. He made her a promise, he made her so many promises.

He can’t betray her now.

In July, once. A good year, a good six months, a good two weeks, until. Until.

Until – 

He held her hand while a doctor talked them through what had happened. Clint listened, because he knew Natasha didn’t want to. He folded all the generic, condescending pamphlets neatly into a square and put them in the back pocket of his jeans while Natasha picked at the cuticles of his left hand cupped in both of hers and once the doctor had run through the obligatory list of options and statistics, Clint thanked her sincerely.

He coaxed Natasha out of the room, out of HQ, out of D.C. altogether. They drove to the airport and got a business class commercial flight to Bangkok. They lay side by side on deck chairs pulled close, drinking mai tais and tanning their scarred bellies while their interlocked fingers trailed spirals in the sand. The only sign of their presence, their footprints up and down the beach every day, soon washed away by the tide.

Natasha said, one night: “I never wanted one anyway, you know,” in a voice that probably wasn’t supposed to sound quite so defensive.

Clint’s heart hurt, which surprised him, so he squeezed her fingers tight as he said: “I know.”

He didn’t tell her, _Me neither_, because she’d have heard the lie in his voice and would never have forgiven him for the slight.

So instead, he didn’t say anything, and it never really came up again.

He’s hurt her before but never like this. Never left her behind where she can’t follow.

He lies on the cot, listening to the tinker tanker of the lab technicians, the rough breaths of the draft from outside sneaking in through the stonework. He stares up at the grim, unchanging ceiling washed out with floodlights.

And a terrible thought abruptly occurs to him. A thought so terrible and so abrupt he is filled to the brim with it, until he does not know how the thought has eluded him this far.

Is Natasha even still alive?

Clint feels his lungs suck in the tough fibres of the air, choking him. His eyes dry out painfully and his mouth is very wet; he tastes the meagre contents of his stomach. A sound nocks in his throat like an arrow in a bow.

Is Natasha dead?

The Soldier has heard him, he senses it. Clint traps a second hitching sound in his mouth, swallows it down like those secrets that sustained him in his earliest years. He moves too much and the chains shackling his wrists to the metal frame clink too loudly and the guard dog, the blue eyed Soldier is there, suddenly, too close and too far.

He stares down at Clint, tall and imposing, smells of bitter cold metal that gets in Clint’s nose and mouth like a perfume.

Clint tries to close his eyes but he daren’t turn away from the Soldier’s arresting attention. The Soldier’s face, unburdened by the mask they sometimes muzzle him into, is softer than usual, doughy with his frown despite his leanness. The Soldier shifts his weight, looking momentarily awkward, before he drops gracefully to his knees near Clint’s head.

Closer, Clint can see a couple of thin ribbons of silver, caught in the light of the Soldier’s hair, that weren’t noticeable before. And yet, with his troubled expression, he seems younger than ever.

Clint holds his breath, taps his forefinger and thumbs together and imagines under his fingertips the planes of Natasha’s stomach, the coarse blemish of the thick scar in her lower abdomen, and the long thin one beneath her ribs.

The Soldier puts the palm of his right hand – hot, coarse, strong, sure – over Clint’s forehead and Clint feels the tendrils of his heart burn with an acute ache that rips another sound out of his throat, hastily gobbled back up.

It’s the clumsiest, most unnatural display of care he’s ever seen or felt, as unpractised as the way his brother would rip a sleeve of his shirt to mop up Clint’s bloody noses, as uncertain as the shy grip Natasha had the first time she held his hand.

It’s the kind of affection given by a person who has only ever seen it, has never experienced it for themselves and Clint opens his mouth to say something, to say anything at all, but someone has robbed him of all his tenderness, and all that comes out is air. The Soldier takes his hand away, and replaces it with his forehead.

Angled sideways as he is, his nose rests against Clint’s temple and his breath is soft and warm on the shaved bristle around his ears. Clint shivers, and feels the start of a sob rattle up his throat. _Incy wincy spider, _he thinks, hysterical, overwhelmed by the heat of the Soldier’s forehead, the brush of his hair, the smell of gun oil and sweat, the sheer surprise of the Soldier’s instinct and the effectiveness of his ineffectual care.

Clint is caught in the urge to wrap his arms up around the Soldier’s back and head. He wants to barricade himself around this frightened, frightening man; he wants to cover him up where he’ll be safe, he wants to break his neck to put him out of his misery.

His hands jerk against the chains again; they’re loud and the Soldier flinches and so does Clint, and a hoot of laughter erupts from the other side of the room. Clint shoves his lips inside his mouth behind his teeth to clamp more sound away.

The Soldier doesn’t react this time, his forehead warm and steady against Clint’s even when a familiar gruff voice shouts: “Be careful, Hawkeye. Don’t let him bite your face off.”

Another chuckle, deeper than the first, corrects: “Or your dick. Fucking shark, man.”

More laughter rings through the room. Clint’s blinded by the thin curtain of the Soldier’s hair and he grits his teeth together, breathes in the smell of metal and skin, and the Soldier doesn’t move at all, as if he had not heard, or did not care, or did not understand and Jesus fuck does Clint hope it’s not Option C, or maybe he just hopes it’s idle vitriol but he doesn’t know. He wouldn’t know, would he?

He doesn’t know anything, he only knows this: he’s alone, but for a guard dog, a Soldier who protects him.

A Soldier, it seems, who worries, too.

He falls asleep, with a fever damp keystone pressing into his forehead, and metal fingers resting on his wrist.

It happens all of a sudden.

The end, when it happens. It’s sudden.

But first.

“There we go. That’s better, isn’t it?” Doctor Halford asks with a sweet smile to let Clint know he does not need to answer, that it would in fact be for the best if he didn’t.

Clint tongues the thick scar tissue on the inside of his cheeks, and wonders if making an intentional blowjob joke would work in his favour, or against him. Halford’s proved immune to all manner of insults and threats, has been as unmoved by Clint’s sarcasm as she has by his rage and his terror and his stubbornness. She might even laugh at it.

He decides he doesn’t want to be responsible for making a HYDRA specialist laugh. That feels tantamount to defeat at this point, and he’s scraping for every win he can possibly manage right now. So instead, he just lightly traces the bulky tissue lining the inside of his mouth, like he’s been stitched together from the inside. It feels wrong, not only the unfamiliarity of the scars, but the fact that they have healed over at all. He should have blood running down his throat in waterfalls.

“I’m afraid I’m having to loan out your guard dog for a few days,” Halford says, a delicate slip of genuine apology in her voice.

Clint focuses on the minutiae of her accent, her vowels and consonants. There’s American embedded deep: East Coast. More than a hint of Northern Europe. However, most of her voice is taken up with neatly articulated Irish. Southern, perhaps, although Clint isn’t well-versed enough to differentiate with confidence.

Sounds have never been so _sharp, _so _precise. _He’s sure not even as a child, before his eighth birthday, he could hear such vital differences in the sounds of the world as he does not. He feels vaguely nauseous if he thinks about it too long. He doesn’t like it.

He refuses.

Refuses to be grateful, refuses to be pleased, to be anything other than horrified, and violated, than stuffed full of spite for changing his, his body, his being.

Halford’s hand is cool on his head. He thinks about shaking it off; he can’t deny how soothing her touch is

Clint thinks, briefly, about how much fucking shit he’s in right now.

Then he tunes back into what she’s actually saying.

“…do something for me. It’ll be nice and easy. You just lie here, take your medicine, and listen. How does that sound?”

It sounds fucking awful, is how it sounds, but when Clint opens his mouth to vocalise his disdain, to his dismay all that comes out is a cracked: “OK.”

A pulsing pain envelops his entire, flaming brain. When he winces involuntarily, her cool hand returns and he is, equally involuntarily, comforted by it.

“I know,” she tells him in a hushed whisper, like a lover’s lips nudging against his ear. _Natasha. _Her soft mouth, her hard words, her every piece a part of him. “I know, Hawk. I know.”

He hates it. He hates her. He hates that she is poisoning a piece of his soul that has been more loyal than any other; she’s twisting the core of his being and even worse, it’s bending shaped to her will. Bit by bit, she is changing him.

She is frightening him.

He is frightened.

He needs. He _needs – _

He closes his eyes and envisions _her _instead. Natasha.

_Natasha._

The violent jade of her glare across the room, the reassuring reach of her fingers across the bed. He is hers, _hers, _he belongs to her. Bury him in the ocean and the tides will turn to bring him back to her. He loves her. Loves her. And, more importantly: she loves him.

He can’t abandon her now.

**toronto, canada**

**black widow**

They sit in a car, and share a bag of viciously spicy chips.

They watch a man walk to his house, holding his daughter’s hand. She pulls on his arm, and he looks down at her with a melancholy smile. Oliver Kenning ask his daughter a question and she lets out a loud shriek of excitement in response, leaping so high into the air her dress swishes in the wind.

“There she is,” Natasha says.

Steve takes another handful of chips, making an affirmative sound between crunches.

“I still think we should wait to see if Hill will come through on a formal approach,” he says for the umpteenth time with disdainful earnestness and for the umpteenth time, Natasha suppresses a snarl. It doesn’t show on her face, and she is forced to reconcile with the very real fact that only person, the only two people in the entire world who would be able to see it in her blank expression – they’re gone. One dead, the other vanished into thin air.

Up ahead, Isobel Kenning swings off her dad’s arm and he barks at her to stop.

The Kennings swiftly disappear into their two-storey detached house, which is decorated with ivy that curls around the small windows, and once the door is closed, Natasha eats another chip.

“Fury will never put me back in the field, as long as this is going on. We need to finish it.”

Steve nods, like he even has a clue what that means; his Captain’s gaze, heavy as his shield.

“You don’t have to be here.”

Steve snorts at her suggestion, shaking his head.

“Romanoff?” he says with a mistrustful quirk in his mouth. “Fuck off.”

Natasha doesn’t smile, but she feels it, in the back of her mouth and in the hinges of her jaw. An impulse. A piece of faith, lodging itself, where it has no right to be.

_STRATEGIC HOMELAND INTERVENTION, ENFORCEMENT AND LOGISTICS DIVISION (S.H.I.E.L.D.)  
PRELIMINARY REPORT PROCEDURES_

_SENIOR AGENT: **HILL, MARIA E.**_

_REQUEST FOR UNSUPERVISED APPROACH OF CIVILIAN EYEWITNESS IN REGARDS TO MISSING AGENT (B-----, ------- -. H------) MADE BY **AGENT ROMANOFF** ON 08/16/2012. (p93-ft1) REQUEST DENIED WITHOUT EXCEPTION._

_REQUEST FOR UNSUPERVISED APPROACH OF CIVILIAN EYEWITNESS IN REGARDS TO MISSING AGENT (B-----, ------- -. H------) MADE BY **AGENT ROMANOFF** ON 08/17/2012. (p93-ft1) REQUEST DENIED WITHOUT EXCEPTION._

_REQUEST FOR UNSUPERVISED APPROACH OF CIVILIAN EYEWITNESS IN REGARDS TO MISSING AGENT (B-----, ------- -. H------) MADE BY **AGENT ROMANOFF** ON 08/18/2012. (p93-ft1) REQUEST DENIED WITHOUT EXCEPTION._

_REQUEST FOR UNSUPERVISED APPROACH OF CIVILIAN EYEWITNESS IN REGARDS TO MISSING AGENT (B-----, ------- -. H------) MADE BY **AGENT ROMANOFF** ON 08/19/2012. (p93-ft1) REQUEST DENIED WITHOUT EXCEPTION._

_REQUEST FOR UNSUPERVISED APPROACH OF CIVILIAN EYEWITNESS IN REGARDS TO MISSING AGENT (B-----, ------- -. H------) MADE BY **AGENT ROMANOFF** ON 08/20/2012. (p93-ft1) REQUEST DENIED WITHOUT EXCEPTION._

_REQUEST FOR UNSUPERVISED APPROACH OF CIVILIAN EYEWITNESS IN REGARDS TO MISSING AGENT (B-----, ------- -. H------) MADE BY **CAPTAIN ROGERS** ON 08/20/2012. (p93-ft1) REQUEST DENIED WITHOUT EXCEPTION._

_ACTIONABLE SUGGESTION FOR FURTHER REQUEST: SUPERVISED APPROACH OF CIVILIAN EYEWITNESSES TO BE CONSIDERED BY NO LESS THAN TWO SENIOR S.H.I.E.L.D. AGENTS. EXTREME CAUTION ADVISED._

_RISK ANALYSIS RESULTS (jp5-xt46) MINIMAL IMPACT PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA TO CIVILIAN EYEWITNESSES IF INCORRECTLY HANDLED. MAXIMUM IMPACT FATALITY IF UNAUTHORIZED INTERFERENCE DETECTED._

_FINAL PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION AND POST-MANDATORY LEAVE HEARING FOR **AGENT ROMANOFF** RE-SCHEDULED WITH IMMEDIATE EFFECT TO SOONEST AVAILABILITY._

_ AMENDMENT _ _08/21/2012 **AGENT ROMANOFF **CONFINED TO QUARTERS AWAITING IMMEDIATE SUSPENSION. **CAPTAIN ROGERS **SUBJECT TO STATUS REVIEW EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. _

**joliet, illinois**

**deputy director hill**

Maria Hill hasn’t gotten to the position of Deputy Director of SHIELD by playing nicely with others; nor has she gotten there while playing by the rules. While those closest to and furthest from her would all agree she is a woman capable of great empathy, not even her own mother would suggest she has much of what would be considered sympathy. It’s served her well.

Maria Hill is also a big believer in asking for forgiveness over permission, which is why Director Fury gave her the post she now holds.

“Not because you deserve it,” he had said in a dry tone of disapproval, his one visible eye flashing with repugnance and amusement. “But because it’s quite clearly the only way I’m going to be able to keep you in my sights.”

He had probably been joking.

After all, he could have handcuffed her to his side and he’d still only be aware of _most_ of what she gets up to.

It’s not yet dark as she approaches her destination – a townhouse, innocuous enough, somewhere between not tempting enough to burgle and too intimidating to even attempt it – and she keeps her face tilted mostly to the ground, hair down to conceal her from most passers-by. She has earbuds in, the wire visible down her front and tucked into the pocket of her jeans where it’s connected to her phone.

As she usually does when she’s in this position, she thinks on how baffling it is that some people walk around all the time like this, actually listening to music, actually blocking out an entire sense. Or perhaps it’s on how bafflingly mundane a person’s life must be, to not mind blocking out an entire sense as they walk down a street unguarded.

Mundane, she also thinks in moments like this, sounds kind of beautiful compared to what she’s about to do.

The front door doesn’t look like reinforced steel, which is kind of the point. The pinhole doesn’t look like a retinal scanner, either, but it accepts her, as does the fingerprint analyser when she presses on the buzzer.

For a moment, she waits. From inside, she hears the grind of locks unclicking and she lets herself in.

The hallway is painted a warm shade of yellow. She doesn’t remove her sidearm, but her hands hang ready by her sides as she walks directly to the stairs and up to the landing. There’s no avoiding the cameras in a place like this, there’s too many of them, but it doesn’t matter. She knows for a fact nobody’s checking them because she has made damn sure she’s in charge of this safehouse.

On the landing, she stops by a door propped open, poking her head in.

Inside, she sees Petra lounging with a closed medical journal next to her and an open copy of an old New Yorker issue in her hands.

“Evening,” Petra says, glancing up over the page. “We weren’t expecting company.”

From anybody else, it might be chiding. From anybody else, Maria might even be a bit hostile in return.

But Maria likes Petra, is even arguably _fond _of Petra. She’s diligent, inquisitive, secretive and significantly overqualified for the babysitting job she’s been landed with after nothing more than a polite request from her deputy director. Petra’s still a long way off from forty but she could be running SHIELD’s medical department if she so desired by now – only, Maria had asked for a favour, and Petra had said _Of course._

“Is he awake?” Maria asks.

Petra lifts one eyebrow, her thin lips pursing in a look of disapproval.

“Only because he hasn’t pushed my patience to the point of forced sedation yet.”

Maria smirks. Petra might not enjoy drugging her patients into compliance, but she’s proven more than capable of doing it over the years. Maria’s only driven her to it once in their time working together.

“I won’t be stopping long, but I’ll probably be back soon. He hasn’t seen any news?”

“Nope,” Petra replies, popping the p the same way someone might throw a sarcastic salute. “And don’t think he hasn’t noticed. His head wasn’t damaged, you know.”

“Just everything else,” Maria retorts, and with that, she slaps the doorframe twice in farewell and moves further down the corridor to a closed door.

Knocking three times, she announces: “Be dressed and appropriate, I’m coming in in five, four, three, two –”

She swings the door open, and is confronted with a most beloved, dearly missed, sorely needed _Phil Coulson Glower._

He’s sitting in a rocking chair, which Maria only mostly wishes she could take a photo of for posterity, pushing it back and forth with his toes as the evening sunlight spills in from the window.

“You should know better than to sit at the window,” she says tritely, closing the door behind her with a wobble of a smile.

It’s possible Phil’s glower actually darkens.

He’s wearing a dressing gown and a pair of thick socks and in a fit of spitefulness, he actually shuffles his chair an inch _closer _to the window. Not that it matters, really. He can’t be seen through it, even if there was a chance they’d been found out.

“This is what happens when you die for SHIELD,” he says in his coolest, most pleasant voice. “You get held prisoner with a Polish tyrant.”

“You like Petra, remember,” Maria replies dismissively, scooping up a stool where it’s backed against the wall and bringing it to the window to sit just out of kicking distance from Phil. Despite the golden glow of the sun’s rays, he looks peaky, and none too short of worn out.

“I’ve never had more sympathy for all the agents I subjected to her wrath,” he says wryly.

It’s a measly olive branch. It might even have worked, if not for the jolt of worry that curdles in her chest at the reminder of one particular agent whom Phil has readily subjected to Petra’s ministrations over the years. Maria bites at the inside of her lip and, sensing her distress, Phil frowns.

“What is it?”

“I’m not here,” she tells him. Phil’s eyebrows rise high on her forehead.

“It’s good to not see you,” he replies.

It’s not a sentiment that Maria thinks will last.

Reaching into her jeans, she pulls out her phone, removes the SD card and makes quick work of inserting it into the laptop sitting on Phil’s bedside cabinet. There’s no internet connection, only a closed circuit system but that’s all she needs, opening up the appropriate summary reports before handing it over to Phil to scan.

Returning to her seat, she watches Phil’s eyes widen further and further, his jaw tightening as he scans the documents with visible anger. When he closes the laptop and puts it down on the floor between them, moving his torso stiffly as he does, his hands are trembling.

“Why hasn’t Fury informed me?”

The unstable edge to his voice is, really, answer enough.

“Why do you think?” Maria asks, ignoring the blink she gets from him that might be a flinch.

“What’s being done to recover him?”

_Nothing, _she wants to say. _Not a damn thing. _It’s not even strictly true, but it certainly feels like it.

“Officially? Standard blinking light protocol. Unofficially? I’m here, aren’t I?”

Phil grits his teeth and hisses through them quietly, glancing out of the window and closing his eyes briefly against the light washing over him. When he looks back at her, it’s with a more familiar kind of resolve.

“How’s Natasha doing?”

The million dollar question, it seems, and the truth is it’s one Maria doesn’t know the exact answer to. She was never directly involved in STRIKE Team DELTA. Her contact with Romanoff and Barton has been sporadic at best over the years, and rarely personal in nature.

“Well, yesterday she was put on additional review for failing her psych eval.”

Phil doesn’t even bother hiding the scoff this provokes.

“She always fails her psych eval,” he says, which really is the root of the problem, isn’t it? Maria refrains from making her opinion on this matter known, because she doesn’t enjoy being a broken record.

“She also carried out an unauthorised approach on civilian eyewitnesses tracking down a possible lead on the day Barton went missing. She may or may not have been considering interrogating a six year old girl who lost her mother three months ago.”

“Considering?” Phil asks, leaping on the word with some abandon.

Did he even _hear _the rest of what Maria just said?

“We intervened before they could make contact,” Maria says with some restraint, not mentioning the very necessary destruction she was forced to subject the audio equipment in the transport vehicle to, because if those few hours had ended up as a transcript on the desks of the WSC, Romanoff would probably be looking at a life sentence or five.

“They?”

“Romanoff and Steve Rogers.”

“Christ.”

Phil drops his head back on his chair, looking exhausted even by the thought of it.

“It’s likely Romanoff’s about to be suspended from active duty indefinitely.”

“Rogers?”

Maria snorts, ungainly and, just maybe, a little petty.

“Unlikely. Being Captain America has its perks.”

To her surprise, Phil shakes his head, his mouth twisted around a different suggestion.

“It’s not about being Captain America,” he says, which is a very nice sentiment but not one Maria entirely believes. She’s well aware there’s a human being underneath the stars and stripes, but she’s even more aware that as far as SHIELD and the rest of the world is concerned, he _is _the stars and stripes.

“Then what is it?” she asks anyway.

“Fury knows cutting Natasha loose will get good results if he plays it right. He knows more or less what she’ll do. Can’t say the same for Steve Rogers.”

“That –” Maria says, but pauses, thinking on everything she’s ever read on the man, in history books and redacted reports. “Is a good point.”

Phil gives her another wry grin, just smug enough that it might be annoying, if Maria wasn’t still far too grateful to still have it around at all to be aggravated by it. He asks, thoughtfully: “What exactly has Fury told you?”

“Nothing,” she replies honestly and without need to mask her frustration. Phil’s always been able to read it on her anyway. “Which means Fury probably thinks Barton is dead. Might even be hoping for it.”

This time, Phil does flinch. It’s a full body thing, like a battering ram. His face contorts with the strength of his response.

“Fury worked damn hard to bring Barton in. Whatever he’s saying or not saying, he likes Barton. He always has done.”

“I know,” Maria says firmly, leaning her arm into the window ledge, so she’s dangerously close to kicking distance. “But Barton being dead – it might be a welcome alternative to –”

“There is _nothing _welcome about Clint Barton being dead, Maria,” Phil snarls, near enough _shouts, _and Maria draws back, pursing her lips.

“Don’t wilfully misunderstand me, Phil,” she says sternly. “I am here because I know what this means to you. What they both mean to you.”

Phil scoffs, shaking his head. His hands are curled into white knuckle fists in his lap.

“And just what exactly are you expecting me to do from here?” he asks, wide eyed and furious and so afraid that for a moment it takes Maria’s breath away. “I’m locked out of all online channels. I’ve only just managed to start walking up and down the goddamn _stairs _without getting winded.”

“Phil,” Maria says, a little louder, with an only slightly patronising shushing motion and a glance to the door.

The last thing they need is Petra getting her more than justifiable sedatives out because Maria’s less than accidentally worked up her patient into a panic attack. She might even sedate Maria, too, just for the trouble.

“Phil,” she says again, softer. “There are three options here. It’s possible Clint left of his own volition, in which case, yes. He’s hurting and he’s alone. But we know for a fact he’s survived as much before and the odds are he’s safe, holed up somewhere to licks his wounds in private and get his head together. He won’t stay away forever.”

She doesn’t need to voice how unlikely that option is. It’s written all over Phil’s face. Even if Barton _had _left, which was unlikely, and had left _without Romanoff, _which was even more unlikely, he wouldn’t at least have told her where he was going. Romanoff’s own actions speak louder than anything on that front.

“Or,” Maria continues in the same calm, even tone. “He’s been taken against his will. And the truth is, anyone capable of snatching Barton out from underneath Romanoff’s nose will have him very well hidden. Either way, it could be a long time before we get any traction on this. Or…”

She almost doesn’t want to say it again.

“Or, he is dead. I’m sorry.”

Phil’s gaze darts between Maria and the window, and for one horrifying moment she seems glinting in the low light from the street outside a sudden wet gleam in his eyes. He blinks, and it vanishes, and he swallows down any number of responses as he looks back at Maria with the same, reliable determination he always shows.

She forgets, sometimes, just how _good _he is, how good he always has been.

She says: “I told you because you deserved to know. Because you might have some idea. And, to give you this.”

Reaching into her pocket, she withdraws a chip that looks more or less like a standard USB. Phil, of course, knows better, and he beams at her.

“A key to the backdoor?”

Maria gives him a sideways nod, handing it over. He circles it reverently in his fingers.

“It’s only for one remote server. You need to be careful. Too much activity and someone will notice, but it can be accessed using my details so if you do it sparingly, we should get away with it.”

She’s not worried. Phil’s discretion has always been at the height of his priorities when it comes to missions, but when DELTA are involved he’s about the closest he always gets to flawless.

“You know,” Phil says, still looking at the chip in his hands, rotating it left and right. “Stark could help –”

On the other hand, he also has an absurd soft spot for the _worst _choices.

“I trust he could,” Maria cuts in dryly. “I’m not sure if I trust he _would. _Plus, you’re right. We can’t afford Rogers going rogue and you can bet if Stark shares this with anyone, it’ll be him.”

Phil gives her a half-smile that is altogether too nice when talking about Stark.

“Fair enough,” he says agreeably.

His mouth tightens a little, as do his hands as they clench around his precious backdoor key as he asks: “Does Natasha know? About me?”

Honestly, Maria’s surprised he hadn’t asked sooner.

“Not yet,” she says, bracing herself for another rising temper.

To her astonishment, Phil nods once, looking approving.

“Good,” he says. “Keep it that way.”

Maria feels the frown on her face before she even knows she wants to. She might not have a close relationship with Romanoff, and might even have some strong reservations about her, but there’s no denying that her suffering is very real right now.

“Is that a good idea?” she asks as casually as she can. “Her trusted circle is down its two most important members.”

If it can even be considered a circle, Maria thinks to herself drolly. It’s severely limited, after all.

“She needs more than that,” Phil says with the kind of authority that speaks of just how long, and how closely, he’s known her. “Give her time to get used to trusting the others. Rogers. Stark. All of them. She needs to.”

“Is now really the time to be scheduling playdates?” Maria asks, and she’s not exactly joking. “She needs you.”

A look of hurt crosses Phil’s face, so fleeting Maria can almost, almost ignore it.

“She needs a friend, not a handler,” Phil replies, as if he is not one and the same.

Maria knows it’s a futile argument, one she’ll concede anyway. There’s no point in torturing Phil trying to convince him otherwise.

“Whatever you say,” she replies instead.

The look in Phil’s eyes is nothing short of approving, and heartbroken.

**toronto, canada**

**isobel kenning**

Isobel sits very quietly in her room, colouring neatly in the lines of the bouquet of flowers that Jenna drew for her this morning.

Jenna’s good at drawing. She went to a drawing school for years, and she sometimes gets paid to draw things. Isobel, who is six years old, doesn’t pay Jenna for her drawings, but she is incredibly grateful. And in any case, Jenna already gets paid to watch Isobel when Isobel’s dad is busy, so that’s something.

Isobel puts down her purple colouring pencil and sifts through the box until she finds a sharp enough green one to fill in the rest of the leaves. Downstairs, her dad is talking very loudly, the words muffled but his tone clear and sharp, like it is when he’s at the bank, or after drinking a bottle of wine.

A knock on her bedroom door makes Isobel flinch, and she gasps, inspecting the page for unsanctioned colour marks, but luckily she hadn’t gotten around to putting green to paper yet. She looks up to see Jenna poking her head around the door. Her cheeks are very pink, and so is the tip of her nose.

“Hey there, Princess Peach,” she says. “Can I come in?”

Isobel nods, carefully putting her pencil back in the box and turning on her chair to look at her babysitter.

Jenna closes the door behind her, coming to kneel next to the mirrored vanity desk that Isobel has been sitting at for the past hour. It’s big – _Big now, _her mom had said, _You’ll grow into it, like your Leafs sweater – _and the mirror attached to it is busy with stickers and photos. There’s a glossy cut out from a magazine of Beyoncé and one of the women’s soccer team from the Olympics and above them both, a photo of her mom holding Isobel on her first birthday.

The photo of her mom is Isobel’s favourite. Her mom is covered in glitter, and so is Isobel, because her Auntie Rhea had given her a card full of glitter and Isobel had shaken the envelope and it had gone _everywhere. _Isobel doesn’t remember it, because she was only one year old at the time, but her mom had told the story a lot. She always brought it up at Christmas, and Isobel’s birthday, and any time Auntie Rhea came to visit.

Thinking about her mom is hard, these days, and Isobel feels that horrible trembling in her belly and her mouth. She tries to smile back at Jenna, but it’s difficult, especially when Jenna puts her hand on Isobel’s head just like her mom used to.

“How you doing?” Jenna asks, and Isobel sniffs and shrugs, and downstairs her dad’s voice gets louder.

Rather than pushing, Jenna picks up the flower picture to inspect Isobel’s work, letting out a long whistle.

“You’re gonna put me out of business, Peach,” Jenna says, softly bumping her knuckles under Isobel’s chin. Isobel gives her a wobbly, disbelieving smile. Jenna says that sort of thing a lot. “How about you and me go over to my sister’s house, to see the dogs. Would you like that?”

Isobel gives her another shrug, which isn’t entirely truthful of her.

Isobel _loves _Jenna’s sister’s dogs.

The retriever, Sootie, is old and playful, and she licks Isobel’s hands even when she doesn’t have any food in them, and she never gets tired of being stroked and petted. They don’t know what the other dog is, Jenna says she’s a _mongrel, _but her name is Pickle and she’s short and bouncy and loves playing fetch with an old tennis ball even though sometimes she can’t pick it up properly because she’s so small.

The truth is, Isobel really, really wants to go see Jenna’s sister’s dogs.

Except, she knows what Jenna’s sister’s dogs means, these days.

It means leaving her dad all alone in the house, and Jenna promises that it’s OK to do that and so does Isobel’s dad, but the other big truth is that Isobel doesn’t _want _to leave her dad all alone in the house. Even if she doesn’t much like being near her dad a lot of the time, because he doesn’t hug her properly anymore, and he doesn’t listen when she talks about her day even though he asks in the first place, and he always cries when she talks about her mom and it makes her think maybe she’s not allowed to talk about her mom anymore.

Isobel really, really likes talking about her mom.

How else will people know she exists?

“We can take them for their evening walk, if we hurry,” Jenna says, still stroking Isobel’s hair, and it makes Isobel feel warm and loved and safe and lonely. She really misses her mom.

“OK then,” she says, very quietly, just as her dad says something else downstairs, and there’s the smack of something hitting a wall and she flinches again and so does Jenna.

Jenna pulls her arm around Isobel fast, tucking her close enough that Isobel can put her face against her chest, so she can hear her heartbeat.

“It’s OK, sweetheart,” Jenna says.

Isobel doesn’t really believe her, but she doesn’t want to say that to Jenna, so she just nods.

Her dad has stopped talking.

Jenna kisses the top of Isobel’s head, then pulls away to smooth her hair off her face with both hands. Isobel gives her another smile, and Jenna returns it with one of her own.

“I’m going to go tell your dad where we’re going. So he won’t worry. We’ll take some pictures for him. OK?”

Isobel nods, accepting another kiss on her forehead. She doesn’t like hearing her dad shouting, but she likes it even less when she can’t hear anything.

Jenna slips back out of the room as quietly as she came in, leaving the door slightly ajar and Isobel returns to her drawing. She picks up the green pencil and starts colouring in the biggest leaf, making sure to keep her pencil as even as possible, just like Jenna taught her to.

_Consistency and shading, _that’s what Jenna called it.

Isobel focuses on the leaf, and the pencil, and does her very best not to try and listen to Jenna and her dad downstairs, which isn’t hard because they’re being exceptionally quiet. Tucking her elbows in close and biting her lips together, Isobel hums one of the songs her mom used to hum when she was doing the ironing, the one from The Sound of Music, about all her favourite things.

She concentrates on her colouring, concentrates so hard that she doesn’t hear the snickering whisper of her bedroom door being pushed open.

She doesn’t see the man standing in the doorway, the mask on his face, the length of his hair.

She doesn’t see the glinting silver metal of his left arm.

**the castle**

**hawkeye**

Clint catches his breath before he realises what has awoken him.

It’s a commotion from outside the room, a rattling battle of sounds and he lurches awake, a scrambling sprawl of limbs. When did they untie him? Was he ever tied at all?

The atmosphere of the bunker has been one of agitation and erratic impatience for days, or hours, or weeks. Halford has back and forthed with the kind of poor attention span that used to get limbs lost in Clint’s days at the circus, incautious hands on a tiger’s flank, under a horse’s hoof.

Shaking the remnants of sleep from his disobedient limbs, his hands grasp the chequered bars of his caged quarters, from where he has a view of the entire lab. He hauls himself up, watching as Halford stalks into the room, footsteps clacking, her coat and hair billowing behind her. She’s livid, projecting a ferocity Clint hasn’t seen in a while, or maybe ever.

Halford’s too distracted to notice him, barking orders across the lab as she walks. Technicians are fleeing the scene like the scattering of disturbed starlings and Clint presses his face to the cold metal bars, hungry for something. For what, he doesn’t know.

Behind Halford stamps a man covered in Kevlar, bearing an assault rifle. His face is bloody and purple.

“Сейчас!” Halford bellows, and the cacophony grows louder as a group of men march in behind them both. The leader of the pack is holding a handgun that he keeps repeating shoving aggressively against the forehead of –

The Soldier.

Clint’s stomach jolts inside him.

Where has he been? It’s been days. He’d started to think that maybe they’d sent him away but he’s back. Back and – shaking. He’s shaking, and sweating, and he looks abruptly smaller. Clint grips the bars so tight, the metal edges dig painfully into his palms and the crooks of his fingers, and he pushes against them hard enough to hurt his cheeks, too.

The Soldier is a mess.

He’s shaking all over, letting out sounds he’s never made before. Strange, discomfiting whimpers, the kind Clint remembers from the dogs at the circus when the meat reserves were low, and tempers were high. Clint wants to reach out and brush the hair off his forehead, the tears from his cheeks.

The Soldier crumples to the ground when someone kicks his knees out from behind him.

The gun barrel is shoved into his eye socket and on his hands and knees he lets out a wail of something like despair, a stream of pleas and apologies, _“пожалуйста, прости меня, пожалуйста”_, over and over and over, and Halford comes to stand before him with all the mercy of a hurricane. Reaching down, she takes a fistful of the Soldier’s hair to pull him face upwards off his hands and Clint gets a good look at his red, bruised cheeks.

“Mission report, Soldier,” Halford snarls and the Soldier dry heaves, so Halford yanks him, left then right. “Mission report.”

“I completed the mission,” he cries out in a loud plea and Halford kicks him, just once, in the very centre of his chest.

“Why did you abandon your exfil?” she demands.

“I didn’t –”

“Yes, you did!”

Halford lets go just long enough to catch his cheek with the back of her hand. He goes down hard, and Clint winces in sympathy. His throat is dry, his breath raspy in his lungs.

The Soldier mumbles something. A string of nonsensical numbers and Halford looks down at him in exaggerated disgust.

“What did you just say?” she asks, in a disapproving voice that tells the Soldier and an increasingly distressed Clint that she knows exactly what the Soldier just said, and is both demanding and daring him to repeat it. Like a flower craving the sun, only to find the moon, the Soldier turns his face up to Halford, to her burning, sickly ire.

The Soldier whispers, like metal screeching in Clint’s ears: “I don’t know.”

The agent with the handgun cracks his weapon down over the Soldier’s brow. They’ve formed a dangerous, untidy semicircle around the kneeling Soldier, who seems indifferent to their proximity. They’re shifting anxiously, enjoying perhaps that they are not in trouble, that they might not be blamed.

“What did you say, Asset?” Halford snarls, and the Soldier sucks in a shuddering breath that wobbles his mouth like a child’s. Clint thinks, maybe, he’s never heard her call him that before.

“We should –” another armed agent starts, but he silences himself at Halford’s raised finger.

Clint holds the damp oxygen in his lungs, his clenched hands yearning. The Soldier, on his knees, looking up at his condemnation, the face of his saviour. Tears spill out of his bluest blue eyes; his hands curl uselessly in his lap as if he has forgotten he even has hands at all.

There is only the shaky breaths and the woman before him, and he murmurs, haltingly, desperately: “Th-three. T-two. Fi-five-ve. F-Fi –”

“Wipe him,” Halford says, and another foot connects with the Soldier’s face as he begs another round of _“Please please please” _and hands drag him, drag him by all four limbs – limbs he doesn’t even use, he just yells and yells, his body frozen by his own panic, or maybe it knows, knows the way his mouth doesn’t yet seem to.

The fight is futile. He’s already lost.

They drag his trembling body into the armoured chair across the room and it comes to life and the Soldier sobs desperately and somewhere down the line that bleating scream of _Please _has turned into something that sounds a lot more like _Steve _and some disconnected piece of Clint’s brain suddenly catches _fire _as he watches. As he sees, for the first time, or perhaps not, perhaps he’s seen it a thousand times –

Clint’s weight falls out from under him as he sees a vision come to life in a memory squashed out of reach until this moment. A man standing in an open doorway, blond and tall, a handsome face, a kind face, looking at him and telling him _suit up _and Steve – _Steve _– like a fuse reset Clint opens his desert dune mouth and nothing comes out as he stares at the Soldier – at _Bucky Barnes _screaming his best fucking friend’s name.

A feral sort of panic seems to take hold of them both.

Barnes convulses with the electrical surges of the chair and Clint bellows a wounded sound of sympathy.

It lasts a lifetime.

Clint cuts his face on the cage bars and maybe he blacks out a minute, because one moment Halford is shrieking insults at her agents over the screams of Bucky Barnes and the next she’s standing in front of a silent Winter Soldier and saying, “Status, Asset.”

And the Asset replies, calmly, hoarsely: “Ready to comply.”

Halford makes a trilling sound as she swans about the lab, the pale blue eyes of the Winter Soldier following her across the room. He doesn’t react when she says: “Put him in cryo.” He goes quite willingly, if a little clumsily, and Halford looks across the room at Clint with daggers in her smile and Clint has another of those jolting, terrible thoughts.

“Have you done that to me?” Clint asks.

His knuckles are bloody, but he doesn’t remember punching anything, or anyone.

Halford arches her eyebrows delicately. Her smile is all the answer he needs.

**(отчет trans. DOCTOR U--- F--------- ASSIGNED HANDLER --/--/1990 - present** **EVALUATION REPORT – MALFUNCTION OF ASSET – S------- ****3------****8– B----- – --/--/1991)**

Mission status SUCCESSFUL following routine track and termination of targets (S----, H----- and any present company). ASSET successfully retrieved PACKAGE and delivered to rendezvous point at 03:37 AM local time. ASSET displayed output abnormalities incompatible with mission success. Hostile action taken against ASSET within acceptable parameters by Agents (P----, E---, C--------). ASSET subdued and returned with reparable damage.

Further analysis of ASSET malfunction history suggests increased malfunction rate in NORTH AMERICA by 12%.

**Recommended action: decrease ASSET missions in NORTH AMERICA. Critical use only.**

**Review of recommended action required.**

**Recommended action APPROVED**

**the castle**

**hawkeye**

There’s a pattern, out of synch with Clint’s circadian rhythms.

He wakes up, as if from a dream of police lights and the ocean’s depths, and finds himself in a cage, or tied to a chair, or standing in the middle of a fighting ring. Sometimes, he wakes from sleeping. Sometimes, he wakes from – something else.

He wakes up, and he is standing in his cage. On the other side of the wide mesh bars, stands a man. A soldier, a _Soldier._

Recognition, like sparks from a flint, light up his nerves. The Soldier is here. He’s looking at Clint with his usual, calculated wariness. He’s wearing the mask, but the glasses are off. Clint can see the white frost flecks in his icy blue eyes.

Clint tries to remember why he’s standing in the cage, but as usual, he can’t.

“I’m sorry, did you say something, kiddo?” Clint asks the Soldier with a light-hearted laugh that tickles his sore throat.

The Soldier shakes his head. Clint laughs for real this time, from his belly, out of his mouth, because while it’s entirely probable that the Soldier hasn’t a fucking clue how to be witty, or sarcastic, more often than not these days the things he does could easily be mistaken for the actions of a sassy little shitbag.

The Soldier’s eyes duck to Clint’s chest area, and a frown burrows itself onto the top half of his face.

Clint looks down, following his eyeline, and promptly gasps, pulling his hand off his sternum. His hand, which had been scratching at his bare breastplate so violently he’s actually torn skin without noticing. He inspects his fingers, alarmed to find thin dashes of blood under his nails.

“Shit,” he says, before dabbing at the deep scratches on his chest with horribly unsanitary fingers.

“Don’t hurt,” a muffled voice says, and Clint is convinced he wouldn’t have heard it at all if it wasn’t for the new-fangled-spangled metal monstrosities buried in his skull, turning his overly clouted, blown out eardrums into fucking radar dishes.

He looks up, at the Winter Soldier’s frown fixated on the blood smeared over Clint’s chest.

“Don’t hurt?” Clint asks warily. He shifts his weight on his feet, surprised to realise for the first time that his toes are numb from the cold. “Myself?”

The Soldier nods furiously, Clint’s never seen an affirmation so furious in all his life.

“Why do you care?” he asks.

It comes out pettier than he means it to, especially given the Soldier is definitely the only one who seems to care at all.

The Soldier visibly struggles with his answer. Clint ignores a familiar urge to tear the muzzle off the Soldier’s face and set fire to it.

The muzzle, he clarifies for himself hotly. Not the face. The face is too nice a face to get set on fire.

Eventually, the Soldier huffs impatiently.

“It’s my mission.”

That, Clint reminds himself with a level of mental berating he hasn’t given himself in quite some time, should _not _sting. It shouldn’t. Because Clint does not _want, _nor does he _need, _the Winter Motherfucking Soldier, to give a shit about him.

In fact, the Winter Motherfucking Soldier giving a shit about him would probably spell Trouble with a capital T.

All caps, in fact. In bold, italic, and underlined. It would be **_TROUBLE_**. However, because Clint remains the petty, reckless, undeserving asshole he is and has always been, hearing that still sort of stings.

“Your mission is to make sure I don’t hurt myself?” he asks, and the Soldier nods another of those furious nods.

Jesus Christ, Clint’s starting to think this guy went to the same etiquette school as Tasha.

For a moment, Clint’s mental reserves free fall, and his stomach convulses in shock.

_Natasha. _He had, for almost ten solid minutes, forgotten her.

By the time he catches his breath, he flinches back. The Soldier has stepped right up to the bars, his predatory gaze roaming Clint for signs of injury. Clint’s about to blurt out a wily throwaway joke about undressing with his eyes, before he shivers and remembers he’s already buck naked, like a goddamn imprisoned idiot.

Feeling disproportionately self-conscious for a man who has been naked in front of far more people than any person has need to in his lifetime, Clint folds himself down onto the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and his heels to his ass and instantaneously regretting it because the floor is goddamn cold and now his butt is freezing.

“You’re afraid,” the Soldier says, still staring intently at Clint, who scowls as his arms wrap around his shins.

_“You’re _afraid,” he snarls back with slightly too much self-pity for his own liking.

The Soldier cocks his head, and Clint feels a surge of sympathy for the gentility of the gesture. Like a pepper coated cocker spaniel he thinks he held in his arms, once, and soothed with shaking fingers.

“Weapons don’t fear,” the Soldier says without inflection.

The words are so innocent and practised, the way children speak when they are imitating their parents, that Clint might never be scrubbed clean of how much he hates his own ill-managed anger in that moment. It scalds him from the inside, the instinct of his fingers gripping his bow, the rapid calculations of that distance that wind velocity that momentum that gravitational drop.

“You’re not a weapon you’re a human being,” he snaps, and he means to say more, means to say something else like _you have a mother you have a father you have a name of your own _even if Clint doesn’t know what it is, thinks he should do, thinks he _did _at some point. Wants to tear that mask off and set fire to it. Wants to see his face and remember who he is. Wants to see Natasha’s face wants to kiss her wants to promise her, promise her –

The Soldier’s head pulls back, ever so slightly, his eyes widening, as if the thought has never occurred to him before.

Clint feels sick. He feels fucking sick. Of himself, of HYDRA, of the Winter Motherfucking Soldier.

_“Asset,” _a voice says from across the room and the Soldier’s eyes slide easily away from Clint and his ill-natured home truths, over to Brock Rumlow, who’s squinting at them both like he can burn them to the ground with his thoughts alone. A smirk plays on his face when he looks at Clint, and Clint forces himself to remember that mouthing off ends only with a tasering, and he’s too tired for one now. When Clint stays silent, Rumlow looks back at the Soldier. “With me. Now.”

The Soldier graces Clint with one last glance, then leaves as instructed, keeping tight to Rumlow’s left shoulder all the way out of the door.

Clint’s breaths come rough, in and out, and his fingernails dig into the torn flesh of his chest and it hurts but he can’t stop, a compulsion scalding him from the inside. He stares at the space where the Soldier had been standing and he feels the solar flare of his own panic rising, tries to gather within himself the impetus to _move, _to _shout, _to _fight _but it’s been packed down, like somebody pressed his instincts through a trash compactor and now he can’t uproot them, can’t muster the strength to unpick the lock on his rage.

He feels the prickle of eyes on him and he turns away, looks at a huge desk full of computers across the room, a man in a white coat, watching him. Clint grimaces, digs his nails in deep and glowers with all his might.

The man, unperturbed, stands out of his chair and walks calmly over to a nearby desk, to a water tank full of plastic cups, one that wouldn’t be out of place in a damn hospital waiting room and the discrepancy of it makes Clint laugh, a bubble of hysteria in his gut. The man doesn’t react, he simply fills a plastic cup with water, then walks over to Clint’s cage.

He seems completely at ease with Clint’s proximity, even when he reaches the bars and puts the cups through a square gap in the metal mesh. He has to tilt it a little to make it fit, and a few drops spill on the floor but most of it stays inside as he places it firmly on the stone before withdrawing his hand.

It’s only once the man is safely out of reaching distance that Clint realises he could have snapped the man’s wrist with little more than a stretch of his hand.

Too late for anything so effective, Clint stretches only as far as is needed for him to pick up the cup and sip the cool water. It tastes of the plastic container it came from, and the unkindness of the very air they’re breathing. The man stays close and not-close. He watches Clint, and it might be disturbing, but Clint’s been getting used to being watched by the Fist of HYDRA, and it’s taken the bite out of most other people’s stares.

“Can I help you?” he asks the man with a spun sugar smile.

The man lets out a pitiful little sigh.

“I don’t know,” the man says, shrugging and scratching at the caramel scraggle of his beard. He casts about the room, looking for backup, or for onlookers, or both. When he turns back to Clint, there’s something missing from his expression. There’s a hollowness in his keen eyes. “You saved my life, once. I’m very grateful.”

Clint finishes the water in the cup, scrunches it in his hand and shoves it back through the bars.

The lab coat man picks it up, de-scrunches it in several squeezes, and refills it at the water tank. He carries it back, and puts it through the bars again, and again Clint thinks about breaking all his fingers too late to actually do it. He picks up the full cup and sips.

“Funny way of showing it,” he says, and pours a bit of the water on the claw marks on his chest, hissing at the sting.

The man nods, twisting his lips.

He goes back to his computers, leaving Clint with an empty cup to scrunch and de-scrunch to his heart’s content.

He watches the man as he works, tries to recall ever seeing his face before but he comes up blank. He looks over at the open doorway the Soldier disappeared through, and thinks about how to apologise to a brainwashed robot who probably doesn’t know what being apologised to means, and then he thinks about whether or not brainwashed robots know they’re brainwashed robots, and then he wonders if maybe he’s a brainwashed robot, too.

His hand bites too hard around the cup, so that it rips.

His chest hurts.

**the truth of the matter**

**steve rogers**

Here’s the thing about Steve Rogers’ lies.

They’re not lies, not really. Except, of course, by omission, which everybody knows isn’t nearly the same thing.

People just…assume things. That’s all.

There’s a photo, famous nowadays much to Steve’s chagrin, of Captain America leaning in towards Agent Peggy Carter while she smiles down at something that she’s showing him. The lens has captured the exact moment when their hands had brushed, and that was it, for the rest of the world to enshrine with doting fancy. Immortalised, their hands forever touching in that instant. Steven Rogers and Margaret Carter, torn apart by war and ocean, a bona fide tragedy for the entire world to jerk off to.

There’s a film from 1976 called _The Heart of a Soldier _and one critic called it The Definitive Rogers & Carter Story Of Our Decade and Steve laughed when he saw it and then he had very nearly cried.

People, they assume all sorts, is the thing.

There’s a book called _Speaking The Name _published somewhere between the amendments of homosexual identification from illegality to mental illness to sexual deviation. In it, there’s all kinds of rumours and assumptions dragged into the light of day to be examined and proved at the effort of the author and the expense of the subjects.

And, listed in the index under the categories Military Figures and 20th Century Celebrities, is an incredibly short chapter on the feebly documented evidence of Captain America’s illicit relationship with his Howlie designated marksman, including how in all the photos Bucky Barnes is suspiciously within arm’s reach of Steve Rogers, like they couldn’t be forced more than a foot apart.

It’s a weak argument, the biggest downfall being that the author couldn’t get a single person on record – not a Howling Commando or 107th veteran, not a USO chorus girl or Agent Peggy Carter herself – to confirm the book’s hungry accusations.

Looking back on that, Steve wonders if it was pride or loyalty that stayed their tongues, because there’s no way in hell that it was ignorance for all of them. Certainly not Dum Dum, or Dernier, or Morita. Certainly not Peggy, or Howard.

He doesn’t know if he’s grateful or embarrassed or both or neither.

He doesn’t know what he feels.

Sad, that’s what he feels.

He feels fucking sad.

**triskelion, washington dc.**

**captain america**

**(the beginning, in retrospect, after the fact)**

The gathering of the Avengers following the victory against the Chitauri began something like this:

The day had long disappeared, taking with it most of the night by the time Steve Rogers arrived at SHIELD HQ.

The jet flight from New York felt much longer than it surely was; the agents on board were tense and silent but for their comm checks and a smattering of _Captain Rogers, Sirs _when Steve first boarded along with them. If any of them had introduced themselves already, Steve couldn’t remember their names by the time they took off.

He figured they’d probably forgive him the slight, given the circumstances.

It was an unpleasant, unreadable silence that clogged up the air of the jet as they flew back to DC from the wreckage of New York City. Some of the agents were subdued, one was what might even be categorised as genuinely upset. Two ware very clearly angry, unable to shake their frustration out of their limbs, their movements jerky and strong.

Steve didn’t really know how to feel at all, other than tired.

He had been in a quinjet with Agents Hill and Marquez when a voice, sharp and an octave higher than calm, had come through their comms: _“Does anybody have eyes on Hawkeye?”_

The last Steve had seen of Hawkeye, he had looked ready to keel over, shuffling down the sidewalk under the watchful eye of his partner, Agent Romanoff. Steve had considered staying with them, but Barton’s hackles had been raised, undoubtedly already feeling more vulnerable than he was comfortable revealing, and besides, Romanoff clearly had him in hand.

Steve had left them to it.

Only, then Romanoff’s voice had responded to the question immediately.

_“Fowler, this is Widow. I am on route to your location.”_

Barely waiting to be cleared by Agent Hill, Steve had bolted from the jet, returning directly to the place where he’d left the pair of agents. There he found Romanoff and five other SHIELD staff standing around the mangled corpse of a dog and an empty arrow quiver.

Over twelve hours later, and Steve was really starting to want some goddamn answers.

Whatever was left of SHIELD that could be spared had clearly been tasked with the search for Hawkeye, including an entire STRIKE Team, and it had been unclear from the start whether they were engaged in a search and rescue, or a manhunt, so agents had made up their own minds.

It was obvious at a glance which of them had chosen which option to pursue.

As the jet touched down on the landing pad, Steve recalled the nod of her head Romanoff had given him when Hawkeye offered to fly the jet. Her confidence had been absolute, and Steve had claimed it for himself freely. If Romanoff could put her faith in the man barely an hour after he’d stopped trying to kill her, Steve could do the same.

He’d been rewarded well.

Hawkeye had more than lived up to his name, and Steve had been looking forward to thanking him properly, face to face, once they were no longer covered in the debris of the fight and greasy-fingered from the (admittedly very satisfying) shawarma.

Steve didn’t know Barton well enough to say for sure if he was the type to cut and run, but Romanoff had made it absolutely clear he would not have left willingly, despite others’ blatant doubts. It was with this in mind that Steve exited the jet, stepping into the grey, dewy near-dawn, where he was greeted by Agent Hill.

Steve was still not entirely convinced Hill wasn’t also secretly a super soldier.

By all accounts, she seemed to have had even less rest than Steve had in the past four days, and she still looked like she could go four more before getting tired. Her expression was severe as she dismissed the agents still in the jet, gesturing for Steve to join her as she returned into the Triskelion via a main set of doors.

The line of Hill’s clenched jaw told enough tales to fill their silent journey all the way to Fury’s office.

By the time they got there, Steve was mostly expecting an atmosphere as subdued as his flight had been.

Before the line of glass walls that made up Fury’s office were even in sight, however, it was clear that this would not be the case.

Two voices were shouting, raised to such a level that it was impossible to make out who it was or what they were saying. Hill sped up a little, glancing at Steve with a nod, and together they hurried directly towards four agents who were standing outside the door doing their very best to look like they couldn’t hear what was going on behind them.

Two men and two women, three of whom Steve recognised from the crowd surrounding the dog with the arrow through its throat. Fowler, Sitwell and Kamil, Agent Romanoff had called them.

Now, it sounded like she had some very different names for them, judging by the choice words she was hurling at an unfamiliar man inside Fury’s office.

Sitwell and Kamil kept their eyes averted, mumbling acknowledgments as Steve and Hill passed. Fowler, on the other hand, stared back at them both, her round brown eyes red at the rims and tears clinging to her lashes. She had one fist clenched around the other, both thumbs pressed to her mouth in solemn anticipation.

She was the very picture of guilt and fear, and Steve felt a tug of sympathy for her, smiling gently as he passed her to go inside. If she return the smile it, it was too small to be visible behind her hands.

The second man standing outside the door wasn’t SHIELD. He was wearing sunglasses and an earpiece, and looked a lot more like private security than a government agent. He gave Steve a deferring nod before the door could close behind him and Hill.

Inside Fury’s office, the man bearing the brunt of Romanoff’s rage was, according to his SHIELD badge, Dr Hilary Brown. Dr Hilary Brown was also shouting, though he lacked the conviction of what Steve now realised was the predominantly Russian insults spewing out of Romanoff’s bleeding mouth.

At the sight of Steve, however, or perhaps Hill, she silenced herself. It was a bewildering transformation, all that vitriolic venom vanishing from her expression in a heartbeat. Vengeance to neutrality in 0.2.

Dr Brown took a little longer to collect himself, rubbing the sweat from his receding hairline, looking terribly out of his depth under the verbal attack of the Black Widow.

Fury wasn’t actually looking at either of them. He was staring out of the window, hands clasped behind his back, for all the world oblivious to the argument going on behind him. It was only then that Steve realised with some surprise that sitting on two chairs to one side, watching the entire spectacle, were Tony Stark and a slender woman with strawberry blonde hair, who could only be the famous Pepper Potts.

At the abrupt silence, unsurprisingly, Stark stood, stepping happily into centre stage in a manner uncannily reminiscent of his father.

“Tell us the good news, somebody,” he said with a frustrated clap of his hands, while Ms Potts’ eyes tracked him carefully across the room, none too dissimilar to Hill’s eyes on Romanoff.

“All units have been forced to return, sir,” Agent Hill said to Fury’ back, ignoring Stark with enviable ease. “No sign of Barton.”

“That’s because –”

“We are aware of your views, Agent Romanoff,” Fury interceded with sharp dismissal, finally turning around. He looked the same as always, and Steve wondered if a day would come to wipe the smug omniscience from his scowl.

Romanoff snapped her teeth together audibly. Dr Brown flinched in response.

Fury looked at each of them, the weight of their failure feeing even heavier in the wake of their so recent victory.

When the silence grew taut, Steve turned to Stark.

“No luck with the cameras?” he asked to an oddly defensive look from Stark.

“Half the area was out of power all afternoon, Captain Corelli. Even less was covered by security cameras. JARVIS is still assessing further afield, but…”

He didn’t need to voice the odds of finding somebody who didn’t want to be found at that distance, not somebody with skills like Barton, or another such agent. They hadn’t even come close to finding Barton before he dropped in on the Helicarrier, while he was under Loki’s control. Steve dared another glance at Romanoff, taking in her tight jaw, her clear eyes.

He thought about earlier, barely twelve hours ago; the way she’d hovered close to a stumbling Barton, all instinct, as if her body knew where he was better even than her eyes.

“At this stage, we have to assume he’s defected.”

This time, oddly enough, it was Hill who reacted with outward disapproval to Fury’s words.

“Sir, Agent Romanoff displaced whatever magic had hold of him. He has no reason and besides, somebody killed that dog, and it wasn’t Barton.”

“Excuse me,” Fury exclaimed, dry as a sandstorm and just as powerful. “Are you telling me that the basis of your theory rests on the fact you don’t think Hawkeye would kill a _dog?”_

The tiniest, most terrible of smirks twitched in Stark’s mouth. Luckily, he seemed to recognise for once this was not the appropriate time, because he retreated back to Ms Potts’ side, reclaiming the space beside her, out of Romanoff’s line of fire.

“Well, he wouldn’t,” Romanoff replied coldly, her eyes darting with an unreadable, unmistakeable _something _toward Agent Hill. Maybe gratitude.

Fury was not so easily swayed as he snorted: “The same Hawkeye who just killed, directly or otherwise, fifty-four of our agents and staff in three days?”

Steve did his best not to wince. He didn’t want to think on it, but if Barton had known the final count of Loki’s victims by his personal actions, Steve wouldn’t exactly blame him for cutting loose. That’s a lot of guilt to sort through. Romanoff, however, seemed unmoved, standing resolute in her absolute belief. That, more than anything, was enough to convince Steve.

He knew exactly what it was like to trust someone so completely, even in the face of the most violent horrors. Whatever stakes Romanoff had in this, she was laying it all with Barton. Steve respected that kind of loyalty.

Unfortunately, it seemed like he might be the only one.

Hill was clearly conflicted, Stark and his partner doubtful, while Dr Brown, whose authority remained unclear, looked downright amused by the notion of Barton’s innocence.

“Thor says it’s impossible for Loki to still be controlling Barton,” Stark chipped in from his seat, his expression carefully careless. Steve thought he might know better, though.

Stark’s continued presence spoke louder volumes than his throwaway words possibly could. He was also giving Romanoff strange, darting looks, which on another face Steve might construe as approval-seeking, though on Tony Stark it seemed absurd. Stark had proven oddly wary of Romanoff in a way he hadn’t with anyone else, which made Steve wonder at their history. If there was any there at all.

“Well, I’m afraid the God of Thunder’s _word _on his brother’s powers while using a spear he’s never seen before just doesn’t cut it for me, Mr Stark. There’s plenty of reason to believe Barton might be in the wind even without Loki’s influence.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve asked, not quite succeeding in balancing out his tone into something less sarcastic. Fury glanced at him – or, rather, seemed to glance at Steve’s general vicinity. Steve tried not to feel smug.

“Phil Coulson,” Fury told the space between Stark and Romanoff.

If possible, Romanoff’s face became even blanker than before.

“We concealed Coulson’s death from Barton –”

Hill was cut off by Fury, who for the first time sounded something other than unreasonably irritated.

“A fact you did not share with the entirety of SHIELD, Hill, nor did you restrict Barton’s comm access.”

Hill’s expression, briefly so confident, dropped into a ghostly shade of dismay. She looked over at Romanoff, who had not reacted to this. She was looking out of the window, to the same spot Fury had been so interested in before.

When she caught Steve’s eye in the reflection, something rather like a smile appeared on her face, dimpled and melancholy. She turned to look at Fury, still smiling, her limp red curls swinging around her jawline.

“Sir,” she said with an unreadable nod of her head.

“Agent Romanoff, you know I hate to do this,” Fury replied, and he very nearly sounded upset. “You are until further notice suspended from active duty. Please go with Agent Hill for debriefing and due processing –”

“Hey!” Stark leapt up from his seat at the same time as Steve’s own burst of _“Now just wait a minute!”_

“Boys,” Romanoff interjected before Fury could respond, wry as her smile. “Don’t make a fuss. I’ll be back before Stark can finish getting the band t-shirts printed.”

She shared one final look with Fury, who nodded at her. Then she was out of the door, escorted by a solemn Agent Hill.

Stark, for all he hadn’t made much pretence of enjoying the company of the Black Widow, looked mutinous. It was an expression that suited him, and Steve might have been tempted to say as much, were he not feeling much the same. Ms Potts was looking at Tony with what could easily be misread as deference, however Steve could see something very different in her eyes, as arresting as a steady hand on a trembling shoulder.

“Dr Brown,” Fury said, startling the doctor considerably. Brown’s cheeks were stained scarlet under the dual attention of Captain America and Iron Man from either side, and Steve didn’t feel in the slightest bit guilty about it. “Continue the compilation on Barton. Get Romanoff assessed before she leaves.”

If the doctor was surprised by any of this, he didn’t reveal it. He merely adjusted his broad Windsor knotted tie and scurried out of the room, looking thoroughly glad to be leaving. As the door swung shut behind him, Stark made a flourishing point of getting ready to leave.

_“Captain Rogers,” _he said, loudly, and with such excessive sincerity that Steve almost didn’t believe him. “I’ve had my fill of hypocri – I mean, _bureaucracy_, for one day. There’s a spare room in Stark Tower for you, if you feel much the same.”

He didn’t acknowledge Fury as he left, but he did wait for Ms Potts to take the lead. She gave Steve a fleeting look and nod as she passed, but clearly had no interest in anything other than making sure Tony was following her.

By the time the door closed behind them, Fury was looking back out of the window, which seemed like a shoddy power play. Steve never had much time for such posturing. Most aloof grabs for power had always seemed petty to Steve, ever since watching Peggy Carter punch a man in the face for calling her Queen Victoria.

So instead of dithering, Steve simply told Fury’s turned back: “You were right, about the Avengers Initiative. I’d hate to see what happens when you’re wrong.”

Then he turned, and walked back out of the door, after Stark and Ms Potts. He tried not to feel the weight of Peggy Carter’s memory, the threat of an undone legacy lying heavily on his shoulders.

And so, they continue.

Steve continues.

He stays in an apartment when he’s in D.C. In New York, he stays in Stark Tower, which only sometimes feels like a prison of luxury.

He reads up on the twenty-first century. He learns how to cook, and how to play video games, and even a bit about thermonuclear astrophysics. He bides his time, and he tells himself he’s not stalling. He drags Natasha Romanoff out of her head and out of the burial ground of Stark’s AI’s camera reconnaissance and he helps her, as best he can. Helps her track down the man in a video they find, the little girl peeking through teary lashes across the street, the girl who might, just might, have seen something.

He unofficially asks Fury for the go ahead and he officially asks Hill to go ahead anyway and he officially-unofficially has a shouting match with three separate grief counsellors and then –

And then.

And then, three grindstone months later, he gets in a car with the Black Widow behind the wheel, and they drive in secret all through the night and day, all the way past the border, into Canada.

They are picked up by a STRIKE Team before they can make a move.

A week later, the little girl is dead, supposedly by her father’s suicidal hand.

That’s when Steve sees something in Romanoff’s eyes vanish, the way the last of a fire is extinguished in a curling thread of smoke.

**manhattan, new york**

**black widow**

Natasha perches on the edge of the sniper’s next wedged in the crevice of the roof. She pretends not to know why Tony put it there, in the rebuild, because pretending has always come naturally to her.

She pretended as a child, and it kept her alive. She pretended as an adult, and it helped her to _live._

She met a man who pretended almost as well as she did, and she loved him, and she got complacent. She lost him, and she got _stupid._

New York City, reliably busy, scurries out before her, beneath her. She sits in the nest she pretends she doesn’t know about, secure in the knowledge that Tony Stark would bite off his own tongue before initiating a conversation that might veer into uncomfortable, emotional territory, so is safe from being called out on her newest habit. She listens to the sounds of the city, watches the brassy lights twinkling.

Clint would like it up here, she concedes to nobody but her solitude. Another truth stored secretly in her head with all the others.

She hears the door from the central elevator entry open, and the shuffle of feet steady, sure. Steve. His tread is already familiar. A would-be heaviness: too graceful to be loud, too heavy to be silent. Even as a soldier’s march.

“I brought coffee,” he says into the wind without actually finding her, and she rolls her eyes at the false courtesy.

Natasha closes her eyes, and swallows her words. She clambers down, and is ready to berate him for his lack of foresight when she walks out to the main roof and finds him holding two empty tumblers and a bottle of whiskey instead. Steve offers her a wry grin, a shy shrug, and she finds herself surprised by an impulse to smile back that she indulges in.

His face is kind. Weathered with emotion and as youthful as the day he was transformed from Steve Rogers into Captain America.

“Come inside?” he asks of her, like it isn’t a measure of trust he maybe hasn’t earned yet. With a pivoting step back to the door he exited from, he clinks the glasses together.

At her lack of refusal, he leads the way, inside past the elevator doors and down the stairs and through the dimly lit living rooms and through the corridor and down the stairs and around and down and around and down and Natasha laughs a little at the next set of stairs and Steve’s shoulders bounce up and down with his own laugh.

By the time they reach another living room, which is peppered with signs of life, the smell of tomatoes, an assortment of cushions, she decides that being annoyed would be a waste of effort. She’s never been one for wastefulness.

Natasha helps herself to the armchair nearest the long stretch of windows, and accepts the drink Steve pours her, and waits until he’s seated on the end of the couch closest to her crossed ankles to say: “Is this going to do anything for you?”

Steve moves one shoulder, more back than up. Scrunches his eyes in a smiling squint.

“I can still enjoy the taste,” he says, leaning to clink their glasses and sipping slowly.

Natasha cradles her glass, and doesn’t drink.

“Wouldn’t pin you for such a plebeian coping mechanism,” she admits, tipping the glass left and right.

“Does it count, if I’m not getting drunk?” Before she can retort, he changes the pace, and she lets him. There’s no doubt, she lets him. “I thought you’d left.”

“Not quite,” Natasha retorts, before sinking the whiskey and slamming the glass a little too hard down to the floor. “It looks like there’s no DELTA Strike left for you to join, Steve. Maybe you should say yes, let Fury build another one from scratch.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks, one hand on his knee and the other gripping his glass more than a little too tightly. “Who would join me, that I could trust?”

He says it as if he already has his chosen two in mind, and Natasha can see them written plainly on his face. His, and hers. Him, and her. Dead, and gone. A respective thing.

“The trail’s gone cold,” she says, because it would be cruel to beat him to his own punchline, and she doesn’t want to hear him say it himself. “I’m officially off the field register. I’m supposed to be grateful they haven’t crucified me, I imagine.”

She pours and sinks another mouthful of whiskey, and it churns in her stomach, and she imagines a tall, cresting wave swallowing them up, all of them. Silencing the world, laying waste, laying blame.

Steve takes a loud breath, sea on pebbles. He looks incredibly young.

“I’m so sorry –”

“For what? For my impatience? For Oliver Kenning’s PTSD? For a convenient excuse that covers up the killing of the only person who might have known something of what happened to Clint? For a six-year-old girl with her brains blown out –”

“For all of it,” Steve snaps, and as he moves the glass in his hand shatters and the last of the whiskey spills onto the floor and his hand cuts and bleeds and sparkles in the half light. He looks down at it, surprised by himself, or the glass, or the blood.

Natasha sits forwards, fingers outstretched.

He stands hastily, striding towards the sink in the open kitchen. The sound of running water covers up the harshness of his breaths, and though he averts his eyes Natasha can see their shine, their need, their hopelessness.

“For not being _any _help,” he says roughly, as the blood drains off his palm and the glass shards drop into the metal basin and Natasha moves towards the tight hunch of his back. “I’m just _sorry, _alright? I want to help. I want to –”

He turns around to face her, a towel in his hands stained pink, but the cuts are incredibly shallow. They’ll be gone within the hour. He looks oddly desperate. He looks like a child and an old man and a hurting twenty-seven-year-old, a Captain without an army, a boy without a home.

She takes the towel from his hands, and wipes his palm clean, and when she throws it on the worktop, he takes her wrist so gently that she doesn’t dislocate his thumb for the assumption.

“I’m running out of ways to help,” he admits. “I don’t even know how to help myself.”

Natasha looks down at his hand, and hers. She looks up at his kind, sad face, puts her hands on it. Her thumbs on the apples of his cheeks, the hinges of his jaw in her palms. His eyes are the wrong shade of blue, his hair too blond, his skin too pale. Too young, too old, too something.

But then, she thinks that maybe so is she. The way he smiles at her, like she’s everything right and wrong.

His forehead presses against hers, and he asks her: “Will this help you?”

Blue, too blue. Blue as oceans.

“Probably about as much as it will help you,” she says, in a low, untidy voice.

He tastes of whiskey, and time, and salt. Warm as a fever.

For one blissful, terrible moment, she forgets.

**a dream (a dream and a memory)**

**clint barton**

“OK, OK, best out of ten,” Clint gasps breathlessly, and Natasha gives him a look of such wicked disapproval, he almost gives in.

“I need a witness present, so when I inevitably kill you with your own stupidity, it doesn’t go on my permanent record,” she retorts in an arched voice that tugs her vowels a little more Eastwards than usual.

Clint laughs, clambering to his feet and pointedly not inspecting the no doubt phenomenal bruise he’s going to have on his thigh from her right heel.

“Coulson will vouch for you,” he says with an appeasing shrug.

“Fury still thinks I’m liable to snap any day now,” Natasha reminds him, sweeping her feet through the chalk on the floor and clapping her hands together to rid them of excess in a puffy white cloud. She’s tied her hair up out of the way, but a rogue pinch has curled around the sweat of her throat, a disturbing red slice across her porcelain neck that Clint very much wants to reach for and tuck in with the others.

He doesn’t, but he thinks Natasha knows anyway.

“You shouldn’t have written _‘One day I’m going to terminate Hawkeye and his stupid puns and then you’ll all be sorry’ _on your last mission report,” Clint helpfully points out.

“I didn’t,” Nat snarls back, along with several other choice phrases that Clint pretends not to understand, like the gentleman he is.

“Well, then you shouldn’t have trusted me not to root through your trash and find old drafts from your last mission report and file them behind your back. You know Phil’s planning on framing it, next to his Captain America cards and the Sinatra vinyl?”

Clint is more or less immune to Natasha Romanoff’s acidic glares by this point – however, there’s something particularly marvellous to be said for the look she gifts him with in that moment. Sweat trickles down her temple and her lips are pinched together and he thinks, maybe, she’s only glaring to keep from smiling.

She’s been doing that a lot, recently.

He smiles at her, one of his toothiest carnival grins and he waggles his fingers at her in a vague _come at me _offer that sometimes works. Natasha lifts her hands, her arms arcing gracefully and Clint thinks he might be on the verge of falling in love with the determination in her eyes.

“You have much prettier smiles than that one, Clint,” she says, very softly, and Clint blinks, momentarily caught in the headlights of her oncoming approach.

“Wait, what?”

She kicks his legs out from under him before he can reclaim his scattered wits, and she bursts out laughing before he’s even hit the floor.

**manhattan, new york**

**captain america**

Steve has long caught his breath, but he feels a lot more scrambled that Natasha Romanoff looks.

She’s lying back against his headboard, wearing nothing but the faint sheen of her sweat. Skin of roses and cream, her hair tucked back behind her ears and a thin sheet pulled up to her hips.

Steve sits beside her, under the covers, too, and feels obligated to feel self-conscious even though Natasha clearly doesn’t. She’s staring at the blank wall opposite the bed, the one with the empty picture hooks that had been Pepper’s rather passive aggressive way of suggesting some decoration might be nice.

Natasha’s mouth is a little swollen, a little sad, and sensing Steve’s stare, she looks at him with big green eyes that hide nothing, in a way he’s not used to, in a way that makes him feel embarrassed like nakedness never could.

He reaches over, and thumbs the dampness from her temple, and the way she doesn’t quite tilt out of his touch emboldens the thud of his heart. And even though he can still taste her arousal, and sense her evasive grief, he begs, quiet as a dare: “Tell me about Clint.”

If Natasha is surprised by the request, she doesn’t show it. She helps herself to his t-shirt, which had been abandoned just off the side of the bed, and she drowns in the cotton, wraps herself in it like armour, fortified against herself to speak. When she talks, there’s an uptick in her mouth that wasn’t there before. In the half-dark, she’s beautiful, but Steve thinks she might always be beautiful, a fact of herself, like her cleverness, like her dangerousness.

“He’s smart,” she tells him, like he might not have guessed as much. “Smarter than he likes people to know. Which is a combination of natural insecurity and a concerted effort not to ever be given too much responsibility. He enjoys being underestimated. He thinks it gives him an edge.”

At the wry twist in her voice, Steve asks, “What do you think?”

Natasha smiles, but doesn’t tell him. Instead, she continues.

“He’s an appalling bridge partner. He can only cook six dishes that he knows by heart, but he cooks them very well and I’ve given up trying to convince him to learn more. He’s got an awful temper, but he works hard to control it, because he’s afraid of turning into his father. He loves his niece and nephew – he probably wouldn’t ever speak to his brother if it wasn’t for them.

“He tells everyone his favourite flavour of ice cream is coffee, but it’s not. He has a recurring dream about a swing set in his backyard from when he was a kid.”

Natasha looks at Steve, then, full of strange, unspoken accusations, as if she’s cross with herself for answering and with Steve for asking in the first place. She blinks slowly, deliberately, like the closing of shutters over an open window. He feels it like a kiss, her withdrawal, which he initially mistakes for a retreat when in actual fact it’s something much worse.

Worry lurches inside him, mentally grabbing for her, her truth and her lies, the feel of her beside him, the warmest person in the world – or so it feels, to Steve, right now.

Natasha blinks, and looks at him, and then she says with retaliatory fervour: “Tell me about Bucky.”

Steve’s mind blanks.

An avalanche smothering his every thought in a crush of freezing panic.

“What?” he whispers, nearly coughs it out in a cloud of non-existent asthma.

He only realises he’s physically backing away when Natasha takes gentle hold of his forearm, her hand hot on his suddenly clammy skin.

“Steve –” she says but Steve’s eyes are suddenly stinging, his hands horribly empty, empty for so long, for so goddamn long.

“I don’t,” he gasps “How do you –”

The question won’t come, but it doesn’t matter because Natasha hears it anyway. She smiles that placating half-smile of hers. Steve’s seen her give it to Bruce, once or twice. Even Tony’s fallen victim to it before. Steve hadn’t realised how grounding it is until now, under the force of it. He realises, suddenly and terribly, how a person – how _Clint Barton_ – might fall in love with her.

Her resilience, her reaching strength.

She doesn’t reassure him with platitudes or promises. She simply reiterates, firm as bedrock: “Tell me about him.”

Only, Steve’s forgotten how. Maybe he never really knew how.

He never had anybody to _tell. _He’s never needed to boast Bucky’s virtues, not to anyone. Most of the people in Steve’s life wouldn’t have wanted to know, and the few who did already knew it for themselves. Knew him, _knew _him – his goodness, his strength, his attentiveness, his gentility, his –

“Calm,” Steve says, finally, like a taste of spring air after the last of the winter snow has thawed.

He feels it, as if it had always been there. Natasha’s hand on his arm now, and Bucky’s on the back of his neck then.

“He was so calm. Nothing like me. I’d get all fired up and Buck, he’d – he’d just stay so calm. Even when he had to step in on a fight, put a stop to something I’d started without any idea how to finish it. He never lost his temper. And he saw everything. Or, he made sure to. Paid attention to everything, to everyone. S’what made him so good at, at going on dates, you know?”

He dares a look at Natasha’s face, and seeing her impassive curiosity, he feels a rush inside him, the kind of rush he had forgotten how to feel at all. How good it is, to love a person, how good it feels just saying their name out loud.

“It’s not like we had much chance of going out ourselves, but with girls? God. Girls loved him. Not just because he was attractive, or charming, or – I mean – he paid attention to ‘em. You know? He’d notice if a girl liked a certain colour, or perfume, or a particular dance. It never made sense to me, how he’d insist he was never interested in any of them, once we got back home. Because they _loved _him, and he liked their company. I know he did. He used to say he just talked to them the way he hoped a guy would talk to his sister. Rebecca.

“And – God. His sister. The way he doted on her. You’d think he raised her. I guess he did, sort of. His Pa – well. George Barnes wasn’t exactly the nurturing type. Wanted Buck to be a boxer, like him. Used to get so mad, because Bucky always threw a fight if he felt like he could win too easy against his opponent. He used to –”

Steve pauses, suddenly breathless, alarmed to feel, stretched painfully across his face – he’s smiling. He can feel it. He hadn’t realised how long it had been since he’d really, truly smiled until this moment. Sitting next to Natasha Romanoff, grinning like an idiot, choking on tears he should have shed almost seventy years ago.

Natasha’s smiling at him, too. She’s smiling like she’s glad Steve told her, like she’s as happy to hear about Bucky Barnes as Steve had been to hear about Clint Barton and he feels it rip inside him, the way a muscle rips unseen under unblemished skin. An invisible, painful wrenching sensation, utterly inescapable.

Steve snatches his arm out of Natasha’s hot brand grip, to wipe the foolish expression off his damn face.

_Idiot._

He can feel himself blushing violently, bubbling anger boiling away in his gut.

“Steve,” Natasha says, low and cautious, attuned to his abrupt change of pace.

“Don’t,” Steve warns her, swinging off the bed entirely to grab a pair of sweatpants out from a drawer. He tears into them with rough, jerky movements. Tries to cool down the rising heat of his aggravated humiliation, his cliff face frustration.

Natasha’s smile has dimpled into a frown, her lips parted in another question she doesn’t need to voice.

“I can’t,” he tells her, shaking his head, fingers restless and throat closing up. “You can’t just – you can’t.”

“I can’t what?” Natasha asks and Steve makes a horrible, barking sound like laughter, like the sound he made when Dernier handed him that marguerite and told him _Je suis de tout c__œ__ur avec toi._

_All my heart, _he had said, like he knew, like he understood and Steve hated him then and maybe hates him now because he didn’t know, just like Natasha doesn’t now. Steve bares his gritted teeth and ignores the ringing of Dernier’s promises, the sound of Bucky muttering out his name in his sleep like he might forget it and Natasha, her lemon-fresh sympathy bitter to the taste.

“It’s not the same,” Steve says, and he enjoys spitting it. He has to, because the alternative is to wail and weep, to drink whiskey that won’t make him drunk and jump into an ocean that won’t drown him.

“The same,” Natasha replies, flat as the scales laid defiantly over her eyes.

“It’s not the same,” Steve says a second time, with the conviction of his own stomach twisting certainty. “Because he’s – because Bucky’s _dead. _He’s not, not missing. So either you don’t get to – to commiserate with me in some – some morbid – some – or what you’re saying is, you’ve finally accepted that Clint is _dead, _too. That he’s not coming _back _either. Is that what you’re saying? Is it?”

He’s not sure when exactly he started shouting, only that by the time he stops for breath he can feel the redness of his face, the tautness of his every muscle, the clench of his jaw as his loudness surrounds him like a storm, and Natasha looks back at him, crumpled brow over soft, sad eyes, seeing him maybe for the first time.

Steve stands straight, and flushed, and afraid of himself. Can’t bring himself to take back to words still blistering his tongue and he’s never felt so flawed, so flayed, as when an eerie coldness takes over Natasha’s expression. She slides out of the bed, takes off his shirt and pulls on her own clothes with forced, graceful dignity.

He watches her walk to the door, watches her stare at him, purposeful and thoughtful. Watches her until she tells him, with a tight refusal in her mouth and hands: “I see what you mean, _Stevie.”_

“Get the fuck out, Romanoff.” All the horror of the Arctic curled up frozen in his hate.

There’s a temper, living inside Steve. The kind that Bucky, calm and collected _Bucky,_ couldn’t ever make sense of. It drove him to despair. It was chaos in Steve’s heart, and in Buck’s, and he should’ve listened to Erskine, about good being great and bad being worse.

His fist goes through the door, but she’s already long gone.

**a memory, a memory**

**steve rogers**

The door slams, followed by a dark mutter of _“Shit fuck fucker” _that would make Steve laugh but for the strained edge of panic that accompanies the words.

Instead of adding a few choice words of his own, or offering moral support to the entirely innocent front door of their most recently acquired apartment, Steve says, simply: “Hey.”

He keeps his eyes on his sketchpad, on the arc of the fourth pigeon’s open wingspan as he draws it.

Inspiration is rarely in short supply around the streets of Brooklyn, however animals aren’t New York’s strong suit and Steve needs a whole collection of birds and mammals for his art class by next week, if he even manages to get to it. The mangy cat from upstairs has no interest in posing, and the only way to get Old O’Brien’s mutt to sit still is to bribe her with treats that Steve can ill afford to spare her, portrait of a poodle be damned.

Plus, the last of his latest battle against what-if-it’s-just-food-poisoning is still raging in his stomach, so the pigeons visible through the window from the comfort of the cushioned couch are all he’s got.

When the silence stretches too long, Steve looks up from the page. He licks his lips, dry tongue sandpapering dry skin.

Bucky stands in the doorway, looking like a thousand years stuck on Prometheus’ mountain.

He’s keening leftwards into the living room door frame and he looks, quite frankly, _awful. _Steve feels a peppery hurt in his heart to look at him. The sleepless bruises under his eyes are worse than they were two days ago, and his hair is filthy from factory smoke. His four-day stubble, which Steve can already imagine scratching over his palms, only serves to drag out the painful tautness of his cheekbones.

A pang of guilt twinges in Steve’s gut.

“You look exhausted,” he says, because it’s true.

Despite this, Bucky pulls a face that lets Steve know exactly how unwelcome the observation is. Vain little thing, Steve almost grins except Bucky beats him to it with a prickly retort: “Oh, and you’re looking like a thousand bucks yourself right now, pal.”

Steve frowns, pulling a blanket tighter around himself in poor defence.

“Come here.” He beckons with his pencil as he says it, gesturing to his lap and moving his sketchpad out of the way.

Bucky comes, his feet dragging sorely over the floor.

At the sight of his red-rimmed eyes, Steve promises, “I’ll take care a you.”

Bucky snorts, ungainly, a little mean, a lot fond. Steve scowls, while Buck slumps headfirst into his lap, his legs slung over the other arm of the couch.

“Don’ laugh,” Steve grumbles. “I can take care a you, too, y’know.”

Buck sniffs audibly, finally no doubt noticing the rain-wet of Steve’s hair and clothes, his brows raised as he mutters: “I told you I’d go out and get groceries later. You’re gonna get sick again, you dumb punk.”

Steve buries his fingers in Bucky’s hair, twisting hard and pulling at the strands until Bucky groans pleasantly – or, it would be pleasant, if he didn’t look so close to death’s door. Bucky rolls over, so he’s looking up at Steve and Steve is looking down at his face. Pale under the grime, pretty eyes hiding behind lenses of exhaustion. A mouth for swearing, and smirking, and kissing.

Steve puts his palm on Buck’s cheek, just to feel the porcupine bristle covering his jaw.

“You can’t keep me locked in here forever,” Steve reminds him for the umpteenth time.

Bucky snorts again, turning his head to kiss Steve’s palm with cold lips and a wet tongue.

“Lock you up in your tower if I want. Precious as a princess.”

If it’s supposed to be snide, it falls short of the mark, because Buck’s voice is warm and wonderful. Steve rolls his eyes, wiping his damp hand on Bucky’s forehead in retaliation.

“Yeah, pretty like one, too,” Steve replies, trying to be sullen, but it doesn’t quite work. A smile has wriggled disobediently onto his face, and Bucky’s seen it.

“You’re working too hard, Buck,” Steve says, ill-timed or poorly phrased or maybe a dangerous combination of the two, because Bucky turns to bury his face in Steve’s stomach, arms coming up to wrap around him stubbornly. Steve sighs, and takes hold of Bucky’s hair to pull it a second time.

His hands come away mucky with dirt and sweat. His heart hurts some more, in ways they don’t make medicine for.

He leans down, and kisses Bucky’s ear, and holds onto him a little tighter.

**the castle**

**hawkeye**

It happens all of a sudden. The end, when it happens.

It’s sudden.

At least, it feels that way to Clint.

He thinks it might be a lot like when his parents died.

One day, Clint was the son of That Bastard and Poor Edith. The next, he was an orphan, and it was a shock of a hurdle he barely skimmed over, and only then thanks to his brother’s unyielding grip. But the truth was, it had been years in the making, the car crash that crumpled up That Bastard and Poor Edith, and orphaned the Poor Barton Boys.

It had been a rising tide, a steady incline. The bad days slowly outweighed the good. The Barton measuring stick for Worse got longer and longer, until things that would once have been Awful became the stuff of Not So Bad. Clint had been blind to it, despite his sharp eyes.

It’s like that, just like that, with Dr Charlotta Halford and her pilfered sceptre and her unexplained plans.

One day, he is Clinton Francis Barton, captive of HYDRA, the jailbreak level up. The next, he is just a guy waiting for an answer to a question he can’t even remember asking. And, just like last time, there’s more to it than that.

It’s more complicated than one day to the next.

It’s waking up from a dream of the brightest green eyes full of smiling secrets that will never be voiced, and looking into another pair of the wrong green eyes grinning hungry, and every time it gets harder and harder to distinguish them from each other.

It’s looking at a blue eyed soldier and thinking about a blue eyed master holding an invisible leash in one hand, a glowing stick in the other, and wondering which one came first.

It’s the iridescent glow of magic from a shiny cube and the sparks of electricity when a big caged chair screeches to life.

It’s lying back in that chair, green eyes and blue eyes and too many hands. The tip of a spear scratching at his chest even as the plates close over his face and his breaths rip the air apart and he screams out to her memory so he won’t forget her and the wave of displacement knocks him down and he clings steadfast to the memory of her mouth on his and her hair tickling his chest and her hands signing _I love you _for the very first time.

It’s blinking steadily awake, and letting a metal hand pull him to his feet and a private voice whispering _“Did it hurt?” _and a private thought responding in his head, itching at him to call the metal-armed soldier _Sergeant_ even though he doesn’t have a rank at all to speak of that Clint can see.

It’s a woman with nut brown hair and green eyes and a lilting Irish fade in her vowels saying:

“Window. Bear. Three. Hollow. Orange. Airplane. Anger. Eighteen. Fire.”

Over and over and over.

It’s lying on his front and something blocking his vision and his two hands remembering their strength. A knife steady in his grip and an old teacher devil-voicing his shoulder as he guts a man who can’t yet be thirty and he slices up another man’s carotid artery so quick it drenches him crimson and by the time the blue eyed soldier has pinned him to the ground, there are ten guns aiming at his head and a voice he just about recognises spits _“Ain’t we done with this fuckwit yet?” _and the voice of the soldier growls poor reassurances in his ear.

It's Dr Charlotta Halford drawing on his shoulder blades with a wet sharpie while a collar locks a hood over his head and two hands hold his wrists down, one hotter than a fever, the other blistering cold metal.

_“Okno. Niedźwiedź. Trzy. Wydrążony. Pomarańczowy. Samolot. Gniew. Osiemnaście. Ogień.”_

It’s waking up and thinking _“Fuck, I miss her”, _and then realising he doesn’t remember her name.

Clint is panicking.

Clint is panicking, and he can’t stop.

He’s standing in a stone shower cubicle in a stone wet room, under a cold spray that’s slapping over his head in weak piddles of jets. He’s counting his breathing – four in, hold four, out six – the way Phil told him to when they were in St Petersburg and the drugs marching through his system were wrenching through his brain like spanners. The way he breathed sitting on that pale blue vinyl waiting room chair, staring at Agent Parson’s birthmark on his hand, while in the OR Dr Clay and Dr Trellis operated on… _Her._

Her.

Red hair silky in the webs of his fingers, pale thighs crushing his cheekbones, a voice vibrating in his back as she wrapped herself around him. A frown over the barrel of her gun, a bright ice cream laugh, mouth full of panettone on Christmas Eve in Naples, a heel shoving back into his shin to make him stumble like a drunk.

He loves her. He told her.

She’s right there in every shard of him what the fuck is her name –

“Alright, time’s up,” a voice says. A guard, there’s two of them. They carry guns and Clint looks at them and he takes a deliberate step out of the water, wiping the residue off his face and squeezing out the droplets from his hair. He shivers, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth to keep it from wobbling.

The air crowds him, chilled by the water still splashing on his feet.

Is there a towel?

He doesn’t think so.

He thinks there isn’t usually a towel.

One of the guards murmurs something and Clint looks away from them, looks past them to the open door.

Somebody is standing in the doorway. A man, his profile. His arm glints silver in the low light. Clint’s panic sharpens like a pencil to a needle point, a strange unruly terror. He knows who that is. It’s the Winter Soldier.

The Winter Soldier, he shot her – _her _– he put a bullet in her body, he scarred her, nearly killed her. Is she dead now?

Did he kill her?

Clint can’t contain his bodily impulse. His knees crack on the stone floor in the puddles left by the shower and the Winter Soldier turns immediately, as if he is attuned to Clint’s every move. He walks towards Clint, walks right past the two men with their assault rifles and their smirks as if he cannot see them, as if they do not matter.

The icy water slips down Clint’s back as he tries to shuffle away and when the man with his metal arm is close enough Clint lunges with a war cry.

She’s gone – _where is she _– who is she – where is _he?_

The Winter Soldier is caught off guard and his head snaps leftwards under the blunt force of Clint’s knuckles but he’s so fast, so strong. Clint is knocked aside and somebody laughs and then the Winter Soldier is holding Clint’s wrists with astonishing calm and Clint can’t untangle himself and the water smacks them both on the shoulders and the rifle men stir as the Winter Solder drags Clint to his feet, drags him up to eye level and Clint looks at him –

– looks him in the eye and what does he see?

He sees blue eyes and a soft wonky mouth and it’s a face he’s seen before, he knows it – that’s the face of Bucky fucking Barnes and holy hell Clint’s lost his mind. He writhes and he wrestles and Bucky Barnes won’t let him.

“Don’t hurt,” Barnes says, and he sounds like he means it and Clint could have sworn he was a Brooklyn boy and Clint laughs, laughs real hard and he says:

“Fuck you, Barnes.”

And then all hell really does break loose like a horse from a fucking barn bolting. Those thousand chaotic metaphors springing to life.

The assault rifles are yelling and people are pouring into the shower room and Clint remembers he’s naked and then he remembers he might be crazy and then Bucky Barnes, the veritable War Hero, the undisguised Winter Soldier, gives him this godawful hurt look and says: “Barn?”

A man says _“Let him go, Asset” _and Clint drops to the floor in a bounceless huddle and he stays there in the hope he might wake up next to –

Tears well in his eyes. Three sets of hands reach past Winter-Barnes and Clint breaks at least five fingers and two thumbs, none of them his own.

He fights.

He fights hard.

He fights and he yells and he wants nothing more than to remember her name.

He’d give them anything in exchange for her name.

The skin scrapes from his shins and his ankles as he’s hauled up the cut steps and someone bellows _BUDDER-UCKER! _when his heel connects with something important. His body trembles and when he looks down, he finally notices a strange series of shallow cuts in the centre of his sternum and that fraction of a second is all they need.

The clamps on his arms are indestructible. The chair is hard and one solid punch to his gut gets his mouth open wide enough to force something flat and rubbery between his teeth. He feels death’s claws in his hide; his own death, perhaps, or hers.

A woman is talking but he can’t hear her. Tears streak down his cheeks and with a crack of his jaw he forces the mouth guard out with his tongue. His belly aches with his breaths and he stares in the bewildered borrowed face of James Buchanan Barnes and he says, so quietly he doubts anybody can hear him:

_“Clint my name is Clint my name is Clint Barton.”_

And he thinks he might never say it again, might lose the last of him here in this place and gone will be her red hair silky between his fingers gone her green, green eyes smiling all his secrets back at him.

But Bucky Barnes, with his metal arm and his punched mouth, he tilts his head curious as a lapdog, as if he heard Clint’s plea, and Clint’s relief is miniscule and palpable and when they clobber his belly a second time his lips part and in goes the rubber guard and Barnes’ mouth moves but Clint hasn’t the first idea what he says because a machine is whirring –

– the machine whirs violently and a plate of metal clamps over his face as someone yells _It’s gonna burn his fucking face off _and a piercing, crackling feeling reaches so deep into his brain it comes out the other side. His body breaks, and then his mind follows, until there is just the hoarse echo of his screams.

He opens his eyes and sees green.

A woman.

She’s not smiling but somehow, somehow, he knows she’s pleased.

“Hello, Hawk,” she says to him with a confidence that promises him, definitively, indefinitely, that that is his name.


	4. 2013 Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo lovelies,
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and your kudos. I hope everyone is keeping safe and sane and healthy in these troubling times. My heart is with you all <3
> 
> The tags have been updated but please do note in particular: this chapter is heavy on the sexual aspect of the non-con tag here. There is non-consensual sexual contact/action over clothes), as well as multiple jokes about further non-consensual sex that is not followed through on but is spoken with absolute intent. Please do not read if this is going to be at all triggering. None of the non-con is between any of the tagged pairs.
> 
> There's also a continuation of temporary-Steve/Nat here, as well as mentions of past suicide attempts.
> 
> Please be good to yourselves and your loved ones and also to strangers! We are all in great need of some love right now. (Sorry to be serving up a plate of hot, steaming angst instead.)
> 
> With tremendous love,  
LRCxx
> 
> P.S. As ever, I won't be offended by (polite) corrections of my Russian, Polish or other thieved languages.

**(Part Four – Fly)**

**2013**

_ BREAKING NEWS _ _: Rising terrorist threat “THE MANDARIN” claims responsibility for a second explosion. What is President Ellis’ response?_

_“**Psychology of Terror – **What we know so far about the latest rise in global terrorism. Key experts to advise world leaders on appropriate effective action against so-called “Mandarin” threat.”_

_ Is PRESIDENT ELLIS up to the task?  
_ _Polls suggest over 40% of Americans are “very concerned” by US President’s continued inaction on matter of terrorist organisation led by the Mandarin._

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

_“Желание, Ржавый, Семнадцать, Рассвет, Печь, Девять, Добросердечный, Возвращение на родину, Один, Товарный вагон. Солдат?”_

_Я жду приказаний._

The Soldier opens his eyes, ready to comply.

There’s another mission. It’s the only explanation for the adrenaline surge. Not that the Soldier requires explanations. The Soldier doesn’t require anything at all. The Soldier completes his mission, and then -

The Soldier watches the scurrying bodies darting to and fro across the laboratory, unsurprised by the wide berth they all give him where he sits, chair back to the wall, waiting. Like a magnetic repellent, there’s a large semicircle around him, a forcefield three times the reach of his arm.

They stripped his weapons upon his return to the capital, but they’re almost smart, these ones. They know he, too, is the weapon. Almost smart. They haven’t used the hood. Someone had mentioned it, a weasel faced critter, sweaty and underweight. He’d braved a glance at the Soldier as he’d said it; his superior had replied with a curt refusal that might easily have been dominance if not for the way his eyes had ghosted the Soldier’s hands after saying it.

The Soldier looks down at his hands. One flesh, weathered and scarred, rough with use, forefinger broken, almost done healing. The other, silver, powerful; it burns in the heat and it freezes in the cold.

_Gift, _he thinks when he looks at it, though he doesn’t know why.

That _look, _that look at his hands, like they might refuse orders. It’s odd, that the man should worry, that he should think the Soldier would disallow the hood. The Soldier watches him now. Ordering his lackeys with unquestioning authority, no hint of doubt that they will disobey.

Machines whir, a production line of technological warfare locked up in old stone. The man is the authority here, that is the way of it.

And yet.

His eyes on the Soldier’s hands, lest they fight back.

It’s not something the Soldier had thought possible. But if the authority thinks it is possible…

_“Stand down, Soldier!”_

Seven guns are raised, stillness arrests the room and the Soldier pauses, surprised to find himself standing upright. He looks up, into the eyes of seven loaded guns, and cocks his head. They do not fear their guns, but they fear the Soldier. The Soldier does not require explanations, yet they have given him one all the same. They would not fear his disobedience unless they also expected it.

_“Soldier!” _The authority, his voice a tremor. The word breaks in the middle. _“Stand down!”_

The Soldier curls his fingers into his palms, skin and metal. Something is missing. Something is not right.

Someone –

“Why?” he asks, slow as the churning computer systems along the walls.

Two men glance at their commander; his face is stained blotchy scarlet.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

It might have been enough, coming from another. The Soldier can feel a buzzing under his skin, an urgency, a thrill, like the deep cut of a blade. Something is _missing. _Someone is _missing. _This man, this authority, is afraid of the Soldier. Afraid of him.

“Why?” he asks again, taking a step forwards.

There’s the snap of more guns, the rattle of feet.

There are eighteen of them in the room, of which twelve are armed, now. The Soldier has no guns, but they forgot to remove the small blade tucked into the heel of his right boot. He’s done more with less. Why _would _he let them hood him?

They were right to be afraid.

The buzzing wrongness in his skin is angry, hornet hurting. Someone is _missing._

It itches at him like a fever, a fever in a weak chest rattling, like a window that won’t close, that lets pneumonia sneak in, a toxic lover, the kiss of death, the death of someone, someone important, someone is missing –

Bullet fire explodes in the air around the Soldier, the scatter of sparks over his left arm catching them.

The first neck snaps in his hands, so fast he barely feels the bones crush in his grip.

Someone whispered, once, into his ear: _You got mirrors in your eyes. _A woman, maybe, he doesn’t know her face, but her lipstick was chalky and she had a dirty laugh.

Behind him, a voice said, _At ease, Soldier, _and he was.

The Soldier knows things, see. Knows things that weapons don’t.

The Soldier comes to. It’s not _waking up._

The Soldier doesn’t truly wake up because the Soldier doesn’t truly sleep.

One moment, nothing. The next, everything.

Manera. Brown eyes narrow, shirt collar close to imperfect. The Soldier’s muscles loosen, his body sinks into the chair. _The _chair, this time, not _a_ chair. They weren’t smart at all, the others.

“Mission report,” Manera says, and the Soldier opens his mouth and he tastes a _Why _on his tongue. Clamps his mouth shut before it can escape. Manera is not afraid of the Soldier, any more than he is afraid of his own gun. “Mission report.”

The Soldier holds fast to the anchor of his unwilling tongue. Silence is a better disobedience than doubt.

His teeth cut into his tongue. Blood pools in his mouth.

Manera’s sigh is long and tired; disappointed. He leans forward, puts his hands down hard on the Soldier’s thighs for balance, pinching tight.

“Are you going to be good, Soldier?” he asks, quiet, intimate for a room full of people. “Don’t you want to be good?”

It’s soothing, at odds with his hands digging into the meat of the Soldier’s legs. The Soldier blinks, feels a bullet in his right shoulder they haven’t dug out yet. It’s oozing thickly. He licks his lips.

“I want –”

_SMACK._

It doesn’t hurt, shouldn’t, couldn’t, but the Soldier knows how to let it spin his head, how to loosen his bones until one little slap can snap his face sideways, the way it’s supposed to when it’s coming from a handler. There’s a whisper of laughter, and the Soldier swallows the blood in his mouth.

That was a test, an easy one, and he failed.

Weapons don’t want. Weapons are.

“I am good,” he corrects, hard lines of metal strapping down his limbs, bruises in his bones, perhaps he was built to fit this mould.

Manera doesn’t respond, doesn’t need to: doesn’t want to, perhaps.

He pushes himself upright, but his absent weight holds the Soldier down better than the restraints ever could. The Soldier keeps his face turned aside, waits for the slip of material to pass over his head, but it doesn’t. His ears remain open, and he listens with idle instinct to the troubled muttering from across the room.

“It’s happening quicker again. It’s definitely a tolerance.”

He knows her voice – her name, he knows it. He knows her. She wears a scientist’s outfit, talks like a doctor, moves like a marine. She holds needles like the Soldier holds knives and if the Soldier likes anyone, he likes her the most. She takes nothing from her work but pride, and the Soldier respects that. She does what she must, what she can, and she does it well.

Is it her?

Someone is _missing –_

Manera makes a familiar, harried sound.

“He was distracted. This wasn’t the programming, this was –”

“I think I have the answer for you,” she says coolly, voice of lilacs and copper wires. The Soldier daren’t close his eyes, fixes them centre point on the wall ahead, so he can see every person in his shadowed periphery. She’s excited –

_Halford._

Halford, her name, her face. Halford is here. Halford is safe. Halford, missing, not missing, someone –

Halford’s excited, she’s got that twitch in her eyebrows, hands grasping at her own pockets.

“You haven’t met our shiny new toy, have you, Manera? Our most recent test subject.”

Someone is _missing._

The Soldier’s seen test subjects before. Rows of numbers, withering little underlings, loose autumn leaves clinging brown and yellow to their branches. He’s beaten them, reared them, put them down as they whimpered. Someone called him Zero, once. The Soldier was probably a test subject, too.

Someone is _missing –_

Halford’s hand in his hair, nails biting into his scalp. He knows this, knows her, her voice and her touch. Manera is looking at her suspiciously and Halford is staring delicately at the Soldier and the Soldier watches the wall.

Someone is –

“You miss him, don’t you?” Halford asks, and the Soldier thinks she’s talking to him.

He looks at her, and she lets him.

Someone –

“Hawk,” he says, and Halford beams.

“The fuck –” Manera exclaims, but the Soldier is deaf to him. His senses strain outwards, reaching in every direction.

A voice penetrates the cacophony. It reaches through the walls like hands through water, close as if he were pressed to the Soldier’s ear.

“Jestem tutaj,” the Hawk says, the Hawk swears.

_I’m here._

_STRATEGIC HOMELAND INTERVENTION, ENFORCEMENT AND LOGISTICS DIVISION (S.H.I.E.L.D.)  
CASE < < 5XP < < BARTON < < PAGE 37[b]_

_LOG-IN: **HILL, MARIA E.**_

_REPORTED SIGHTINGS [xpfile] REFERRED, PURSUED AND DISQUALIFIED WITH EXCEPTION OF: [1] Ghent BELGIUM known – safehouse – active – 2007 – until – 2010 --- reported – to – local – authorities – as – priority – do – not – engage --- follow – up – required [2] Sendai JAPAN unusual – activity – reported – involving – previous – alias --- low – priority – follow – up --- remit – of – on – location – agent - availability [3] Washington DC NEW YORK STATE sighting – reported – less – than – two – miles – from – address – belonging – to – close – relation --- brother – Charles – Barton – and – family – relocated – thirteen – months – prior --- routine – checks – maintained_

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

“Again,” Halford says, and another flurry of shifts and murmurs pass through the room.

The Soldier remains exactly where he stands, with his back to the wall on Halford’s left. Close enough to the corner that he can peripherally watch all angles of the room through the thick visor covering his eyes. The mask covering his mouth is hot and damp.

It takes the Hawk longer to get up this time.

They’ve reset his shoulders, but the swelling hasn’t completely gone down. His arms are shaking, his body coated in a thick layer of dust and sweat, streaking down his bare arms and face. When he turns, the spiky ridges locked in ladder rungs down his spine are red and swollen at the entry points from exertion.

When the Hawk looks over at the shoulder in an about-turn, his eyes are pale and shiny. There’s a crust of blood in both of his nostrils.

The Hawk repositions himself under the first low hung beam, staring up at it with his mouth set and his eyes narrowed.

He bends his legs in a half-squat, the huge metal wings attached to his back stretch out to their full extension on either side and he jumps, reaching up with a grunt to catch himself. He swings once, twice, wings slicing through the air and catching reflections of the lights, until he can bend gracefully all the way up, his legs hooking over the next beam to hang batlike, upside down.

For a moment, the wings fold around him, throwing him off balance and it looks like he’s going to fall _again._

The Soldier suppresses a strange impulse to rush beneath him, ready to break his fall.

Behind his visor, he glances at Halford but she doesn’t seem to have noticed. She’s staring intently at the Hawk.

This time, the Hawk doesn’t fall. He lets the momentum take him all the way around the pole, his wings re-opening to allow him to take hold of the next beam, and the next, until he’s high – higher than he’s reached in over an hour, there’s a fluttering of interest from the people on the ground lining the walls, two people up their bets and one curses and another sucks in a huge breath.

The Soldier curls his fingers into his palms.

When he reaches the top beam, the Hawk looks straight down at the Soldier, his pale and shiny eyes wide with surprise.

“Good,” Halford says, none too loudly. The Hawk does something with his face that might be a smile. “Now, you’re going to jump, and you’re going to slow your fall.”

A look of uncertainty flashes over the Hawk’s face.

He looks down at the ground, and his arms tremble again. The last time he got this far, they had to pause afterwards to put his shoulders back in their sockets after he hit the ground. The Soldier had held him down by the wings, and he’d scrunched his eyes shut in pain.

“Hawk!” Halford shouts, a harsh and shrill sound, off-key like a broken bell. “Jump!”

Instinct takes over, an innate piece of loyalty that Halford carries in her hands. The Soldier recognises it.

The Hawk jumps.

There’s a collective stuttering gasp in the room. The Hawk’s wings stretch outwards, one of the tips cutting harshly into a beam on his downward path and he lets out a cry of surprise, tipped sideways by the nudge. Halford takes a lunging step closer, and the Hawk’s wings recalibrate, and the metallic feathering tilts outwards, until they are catching the air and the Hawk is gliding, his hands reaching outwards as if to catch the emptiness about him as he plummets to the ground, feet first –

Falls, drops through the air, plunges, and the Soldier feels a sudden rush of icy cold like tumbling through a snow storm as a train screams –

The Hawk slows down.

It’s not slow enough.

His wings give one, feeble surge like a bird’s, and a sound of panic escapes him, and he closes his eyes and hunches his body but he lands – lands on solid ground with a crunch and the wings curve inwards and he stays on his feet and there’s a moment of sheer silence, the pin drop of those metal feathers realigning.

The Soldier realises he’s holding his breath.

He stops doing that, isn’t sure when or why he started in the first place.

Halford bursts out laughing.

Her delight infects the room, and there’s a smattering of applause and an exchanging of currencies between hands and even a small amount of grumbling. Meisner is there, and so is Kapanen, and they crowd each other like thrilled spectators applauding their ringmaster as Halford walks straight up to the Hawk. He’s taller than her, even half stooped as he is with his wings drooping to rest their tips on the ground.

At her approach, he drops to his knees, the wings folding elegantly behind him but he winces, caught off guard.

Her hand touches his forehead, traces down as she walks around him to inspect the wings more closely.

“He’s still not light enough,” Kapanen is saying, despite the excitement jittering in his limbs as he joins Halford behind the Hawk.

“We’re getting closer,” she replies, sounding unconcerned. “And his skeleton has responded to the treatment – there were less fractures this time.”

“Maybe we should get a scan in before celebrating, hmm?” one of the doctors says, approaching from the left. He’s already checking the Hawk’s pulse and blood pressure, while the Hawk folds his neck down obediently, one arm lifted, staring at the ground in front of him.

The Soldier maintains his distance, keeping all the other occupants of the room in his line of sight. He can feel the vibrations of their voices, their intrigue, their impatience. There’s an undercurrent of violence to their anticipation and it puts the Soldier’s instincts on edge.

Kapanen and Halford are discussing dosages, and Meisner is fiddling with the axillar of the Hawk’s right wing, and the doctor is testing the Hawk’s pupillary response, and the Hawk –

The Hawk is quiet, a look of meekness in his face that had not been there when he was climbing.

When the doctor moves his head to check the metal plates in the side of the Hawk’s skull, the Hawk’s gaze finds the Soldier. He stares, and hidden behind his visor the Soldier stares back. He does not blink, until long after the crowd has dispersed.

Later, the Hawk returns to his cage. The wings are not forgiving enough to lie on his back, so he lies on his front on the cot in the middle of the cage, the wings drooping lazily on either side to the floor. He sleeps, when he is told to, and the Soldier feels a stirring of something unpleasant when he watches it. The Soldier never sleeps, not like that, not once, not ever. Even when he rests, it comes stiffly – unconsciousness, the disorientation of passivity and unawareness.

The Soldier stands watch as the Hawk lies down, facing outwards.

For a brief moment before slipping into unconsciousness, he stares up at the Soldier through the mesh bars.

“Your eyes,” the Hawk says, and the Soldier blinks. He’s still wearing the visor and mask, had been instructed to keep them on as long as the test run was in session and they were surrounded by strangers but – now, they are alone.

Halford is in the other room. The Soldier can hear her voice chiming, and Kapanen’s, too.

After a brief pause, the Soldier reaches up and takes off the visor.

The Hawk’s mouth curves up in a docile smile.

“Thank you,” he says, in English first, and again in Polish.

He drifts to sleep, as instructed.

The Soldier keeps watch.

The Hawk bruises more easily than the Soldier. The Hawk is not as strong as the Soldier. But the Hawk is fast, and he’s getting faster all the time. He moves as if he is hollow steel, a lightning bolt of silver and skin. The quickness reflected in his glassy grey eyes.

When he is not on a mission, the Soldier’s primary task is simple: watch, and protect.

Usually it is to watch and protect Halford; sometimes somebody else. Now, it is to watch and protect the Hawk, so that is what he does. He watches the Hawk, and he does it well. He protects the Hawk.

The Soldier stands at the edge of the room.

The Hawk is strapped down to a gurney, an IV line taped into his right arm, pumping a thick, clear liquid in slow, viscous drips. There is a hood locked over the Hawk’s head, tied off by a metal choker around his throat. His body is shiny with a cold sweat that’s radiating from him. He is exuding a coldness that is permeating the room, washing over the Soldier in turn.

There’s a purplish rash crawling outward from the Hawk’s sternum. The tips of his fingers are blue and black with frostbite.

The Soldier has already had to tighten his restraints once, when the trembling in his joints threatened to dislodge the IV drip.

Halford and Kapanen are watching from an observation chamber, shielded by a screen several inches thick of ballistic glass. Halford is holding a steaming cup of something between both her hands. Kapanen is swigging gulps from his third bottle of coca cola in the past hour. Their voices are low, muffled, but other than the rattle of the Hawk’s bones the lab is silent, and the Soldier can make out their words clearly as they drift through the vent above the observation window.

The Hawk’s hips jerk, legs twisting.

The leather straps holding him in place squeak and groan.

The Soldier watches, unsure what can be done, this time, to protect.

_“Easy. We combine the final dosage with another flood of fluoride and testosterone. It stabilised him last time, and in combination with the pre-Ext mid-process while he’s at his most pliable, it should lock the changes into his DNA permanently. No more broken bones. The elevated healing is probably just about strong enough to make any minor fractures negligible. He’ll never match the Soldier’s stamina, but he’ll be fast. Testosterone might even increase his speed with the right muscle growth.”_

_“It will increase more than just his speed, Halford.”_

_“Feeling uncomfortable, Lasse?”_

_“If I have to watch Meisner kick him in the hard-on one more time, I don’t think I’ll be responsible for my actions.”_

_“You’ll cut open his skull and rip out his eardrums, but you’re squeamish about a little CBT?”_

_“Let’s keep our sex lives out of this, Charlotta. It’s a fundamental code of conduct. You don’t kick another man in the balls. It’s just wrong.”_

_“Christ, where did we find you again?”_

_“Playing less than nicely with other Black Dolphin inmates, as I recall.”_

_“Ah, yes. Such a waste.”_

_“What do you do with the Soldier? You’re not telling me he’s been getting dick-punched for the past fifty years.”_

_“Oh, it’s easy. Chemical castration is a simple enough process. The serum means he recovers eventually but he’s in and out of cryo long enough that it takes a while. I don’t think the Hawk’s got enough extra healing in him to do the same though, and we’re trying to reverse osteoporosis, not encourage it. Unless you think I should just geld him completely?”_

_“Fuck, you’re frightening.”_

_“You’re right. Let’s just leave it for now. At least Meisner is enjoying himself.”_

The Hawk’s fingers bend and curl, his thumb tucked to his palm.

For a moment, the bones creak, then –

_SNAP!_

The Soldier turns to the window.

“His thumbs are broken,” he warns.

“Shit!” Halford shouts, slamming her cup on the table and moving to the joining door. She eyeballs Kapanen as she passes. “Suck it up, Lasse. We need that fluoride. And the testosterone. He’s useless to me without his hands.”

**athens, greece**

**captain america**

So, as it turns out, Captain America _can _get a little bit drunk. Provided Captain America is supplied with three full bottles of ouzo and is allowed to drink them quickly, uninterrupted, in under half an hour. It tastes like a mixture of varnish, paint stripper, and gun oil with aniseed rubbed in for an aftertaste. Or at least, what Steve imagines such a combination would taste like.

He’s lying on a rooftop, staring up at the sky faintly salted with stars. The light pollution is less severe, this far out of the city centre. It’s still warm, though, the breeze washing over him like a breathy sigh. The third empty bottle rolls away as he nudges it with his wrist.

“I think I need to piss now,” he says with idle curiosity, frowning as he pats where he thinks his bladder is.

“Give it time,” Natasha replies, patting his stomach just hard enough that his guts rumble unpleasantly.

“Oh, this is gonna be so bad,” Steve chuckles. “You’re gonna get locked up for killing Captain America.”

“What do you mean?” Natasha asks dryly, shuffling up a little so her shoulder lines up with Steve’s where she lies on her back. She’s still holding another bottle of ouzo, half full, in her hands. He thinks it’s her second, but he can’t quite be sure. “I’m in Monte Carlo right now. I’m going to read about Captain America’s tragic demise over my morning coffee and fruit salad.”

Steve rolls his head to the side, staring at Natasha’s face, ghostly pale in the darkness, dark red bangs spilling over her face. He can taste ouzo in the back of his throat, coating his tongue in a thin glossy film.

“Did someone send you here to check up on me?”

“I have been expressly told to leave you alone,” Natasha retorts archly, sounding oddly accusatory.

“What, you thought that was my doing?”

In the tense ensuing pause, Steve actually thinks she’s going to say yes. However, her lips twitch a little wider into something like a smile, and her voice tremors with laughter when she replies: “Fury thinks I upset his prize pony. He’s got me doing milk runs to _ease me back in.”_

“By yourself?”

This time, it’s Natasha’s turn to stare back at him, her eyes flashing and her lips twisting.

“I don’t play well with others, Steve. Perhaps you’ve noticed.”

Steve should laugh, or agree, or scoff, or something. Disagree verbally. Steve should remind her that she played more than nicely in the Battle of New York when the fate of the world was a shared weight in her hands. Steve should tell her that Nick Fury is an ass. Steve should do absolutely anything except reach over and take hold of Natasha Romanoff’s hand.

Steve reaches over, and takes her hand.

To his astonishment, she doesn’t withdraw it. She doesn’t squeeze back, either.

“You came to check up on me?” he asks, different this time, and she knows it.

Her smile, while cynical, is less sharp.

“Don’t say I never did anything for you, Captain Rogers.”

With that, she extracts her hand from his and slaps his belly again. The three litres of ouzo swirling in him ripples around, taunting his gag reflex.

“Guh,” he heaves, batting her hand away and enjoying the tickle of almost-laughter in her response. “Not even Tony managed to get me this close to drunk. I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all. What if serum-drunk is like, worse than regular-drunk? Oh my _god _I’m gonna die and it’s gonna be so embarrassing. Could you make sure to shoot my corpse a whole bunch of times once I’m gone? Then at least they might think I died heroically fighting terrible evil. And not. You know. An aperitif drink.”

Steve curls over onto his side, facing Natasha, and focuses on the flutter of her hair in the thin breeze until the nausea goes away. His knees tuck up a little, so that they’re touching Natasha’s leg. She takes a swig of her own drink, licking her lips.

“I might have spiked your bottles with a bit of Thor’s magic party ambrosia, too.”

Steve closes his eyes and groans. He shouldn’t be surprised. He _isn’t _surprised.

“Why?”

“You told Fury you were taking a _vacation _and all you’re doing is staying in this dreary house drawing pictures of dead people and feeling sorry for yourself.”

“Well I don’t have a lot of practice at vacations. This is my first one.”

“Thought you didn’t need _practice?”_

Steve swallows down a laugh before it can bubble out of him and maybe bring the contents of his stomach with it. He pretends not to hear her comment, because the Black Widow isn’t half as funny as she thinks she is.

He sits up very slowly, leaning back on his hands, and tilts his face up towards the sky. It’s beautiful here, he _likes _it here. And yes, maybe he’s not explored quite as much of the world as he’d like to, and yes, maybe he’s been exercising his right to a modicum of self-pity just a little too thoroughly the past four days, but so what? There are a lot worse ways he could be taking out his upset on himself, or on the world for that matter.

Natasha perhaps senses the thin ice under her feet.

She sits up, too, putting her bottle down beside her with a dull _thunk._

The roof itself they’re on is pretty bare. A small collection of potted plants lines the southern wall, and on the other side is a table and three chairs which still has an assortment of pencils and scrap paper from earlier in the afternoon, before Natasha had arrived. There’s a beautiful 360° view, one way stretching all the way towards the centre of Athens, the sea in the near distance in the other direction. Steve could stay here for another week and not run out of source material.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like Natasha is going to be allowing that to happen.

“Steve,” she says, in a low tone that’s a shade too close to understanding.

He’s hyperaware of her. The smell of her hair; how easy it would be for her to reach out and touch him, break him apart into shards and leave him scattered on the ground. She’s a stranger, most of the time. A stranger he knows too well, and he brings his hand to his face, covers his lips with his palm as if to wipe the sense memory of her from his mouth.

Steve looks out over the edge of the wall in front of them, to a ridge of mountains, olive green and dark sand. Beneath the rippling undercurrent of alcohol dousing his organs and veins, there is something much stronger tying him to the ground, to Natasha’s side. He could sit here in this stilted silence forever. Bask in it, the potential of the moment. He could rein in his urges and be content, never knowing, never speaking. He could do it.

Only, he doesn’t _want _to. He doesn’t have to.

Why should he?

Steve turns and looks at Natasha. Her expressionless face, staring at him. Wide green eyes, red hair displaced by the wind, wearing shorts and a t-shirt that wouldn’t have been out of place in a crowd of tourists in Athens’ city centre. Expectant, yet undemanding.

He reaches out, cautiously, and she doesn’t so much as blink when he places his open palm on the side of her face, his thumb brushing smoothly over her cheekbone. He takes his hand back, clasps his fingers in his lap and looks away.

“What’s the worst feeling you ever had?” he asks her.

He thinks he might be hoping she’ll scoff at him. Push back against the intrusion of his curiosity, throw her bottle of ouzo at him or maybe drink it herself, and leave. It was Steve’s curiosity, first, that drove this smarting wedge between them, after all.

What he isn’t expecting, though: a laugh, and shake of her head in his peripheral vision.

“Impatience,” Natasha says, like an inside joke. Her looks at her, and she looks at him, and he knows the way he knows very few things that she isn’t lying to him.

Natasha looks away, towards the horizon, where the mountainous ridges kiss the sky and the moonlight seems to glow from within. She’s ivory pale; crimson and emerald and rose. He could paint her like this, exactly like this, a capturable moment like no other. A quietude unlike the predatory stillness she usually possesses.

“After Clint lost most of his hearing for good, he was put on medical leave. I was given a choice. Take leave with him, or be reassigned temporarily to another STRIKE Team. I took the leave. Not because I wanted to, but because I didn’t trust another team enough without Clint backing me up.”

For a moment, Natasha glances at her hands. Her nails are painted a dark shade of purple, which Steve realises with a jolt he recognises as the colour she wears when she’s working with cards. How does he know that? He can’t remember noticing it before.

Her voice is low, and even; perfect recall as the witness to her own crime.

“For two days, Clint just – shut me out. Shut us all out. He didn’t want the upgraded hearing aids. He didn’t want surgery. And I had no patience for it. Worse, I didn’t hide it from him. I cared – it, it hurt, seeing him like that. But I handled his suffering badly. I handled him badly.”

For a moment, Steve considers telling her _That’s not so bad. _He doesn’t need the Black Widow’s unredacted file to know Natasha Romanoff has done a lot worse in her lifetime than get impatient with her injured partner. But the admonishment stays under his tongue, like a toxin burying into him. It’s not the worst thing she’s done, but that’s not what he had asked her, was it? It’s what she feels worst about.

And who is Steve to question it, that Natasha’s greatest sin is a slight against the man she loves.

He can see it in her face, the blank wall of her stare.

“He forgave you,” Steve says, confidently, because it is an obvious truth, and even if Natasha doesn’t need reminding of it, it’s nice to say, it’s nice to be said.

“Yes,” she replies.

“How?”

At that, Natasha does let slip a twinge of a smirk.

“I told him to.”

“You told him to?” Steve scoffs.

Natasha reaches for her bottle, takes a slow, shallow sip without breaking eye contact. Lips still wet with ouzo; she grins sardonically.

“Well, I wasn’t going to _ask. _Then he’d really know something was wrong.”

Steve lets out an easy chuckle of surprised understanding. There’s a giving to that kind of love, a taking and a pushing that is beyond offers. When they are not two people, full of questions and answers, but something else. An entity divided, truth resting in the space between their bodies.

Natasha looks back at him, holds out her bottle and Steve exaggerates his very real shudder of a refusal. His vision isn’t exactly blurry, but the combination of drink and darkness has the whole world in a state of softness that his overactive senses aren’t used to. Pastel smudged lines.

He leans back on his hands again, a little closer to Natasha.

“What about you?” she asks, and he can’t hold it against her.

_Guilt, _he could say. _Guilt. _She’d believe him. He carries it inside him all the time, he did when he was a sickly boy draining his Ma’s resources and he did when he was a newly churned out super soldier shaking off hits that were crippling and killing all the men around him.

It wouldn’t be a lie.

It wouldn’t be the truth, either.

“Relief,” Steve tells her, and her eyebrows raise delicately in a visible gesture of surprise and curiosity.

Steve steels himself, feels the heat of her bare arm pressed against him. The grumbling of his intestines. The scent of olive trees and sea salt in the air.

“The first time I saw Bucky after getting the serum was in Azzano. We were running for our lives, and then we were walking back to camp, and when we got there – it was crazy. It was hours before I got a chance to talk to him alone. And the truth was, he was a wreck. Then, but also after. A long time after. He didn’t say it. Neither did I. But he was torn up, inside and out, and I –”

Steve pauses, wrestling against the grimace forcing its way onto his face. He looks down at his own hands, clenched bone white. He’s been punching his way out of every fight even when his knuckles were breaking; even when there was nothing and nobody to punch.

“There was this piece of me. This ugly, horrible piece of me that enjoyed the fact that Bucky needed me. Needed my help. I’d never really felt useful to him. I know – I knew he loved me. But I never much felt like he needed me, the way I needed him. And then, there he was, shaking off imprisonment and, and _torture, _and all I could think was how much I liked being the one to take care of him for a change.”

It had lived inside him, fed off his very soul.

September 1944, a year after Azzano, and Bucky used to wake up clutching at his own inner arms like he could tear the flesh off his bones with his nails. He’d lean into Steve’s hand when he put his fingers on his forehead, would make this sound like dying and surviving the rare occasion they had a second private enough for Steve to pull him in close.

When Steve looks up from his hands, Natasha isn’t looking at him.

“He forgive you?” she asks, and it shouldn’t sting that it’s a question for Steve the way it hadn’t been for Natasha, even though she’s right, of course she’s right.

“I don’t know,” Steve admits, even more quietly than before. “We never talked about it. He was gone before I could ever talk to him about any of it.”

“Why are you telling me this, Steve?” Natasha asks, bluntly, but not unkindly.

It’s a fair question, whichever way it’s swung. Dead cat about the room, hitting excuses at every turn. Steve has no real reason, except for the thousand mile a minute beat of his heart when he looks at her face and feels regret that belongs in the annals of history.

“Because I meant what I said, before. Last year. When I said it was different, you, and me. Clint and Bucky.”

Natasha takes a slow breath, her poker player fingernails clacking against the glass bottle in her hands.

“I meant it, but it’s not entirely true,” Steve continues. “You caught me off-guard. I never – I’ve never talked about Bucky to anybody. And, I liked it. Even though I was angry after. I liked talking about him. I liked hearing you talk about Clint, too.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, but it’s so pointed that he thinks it might be disingenuous.

“You ever get around to finding yourself a decent therapist, Rogers, since you’re so up to speed with the modern world?”

It’s a dry crack of a question, but Steve recognises the barb for what it is. A defensive parry. He’s struck too close to her most exposed nerves. So he just smiles, and leans over enough to nudge her shoulder with his own.

“Nope,” he says coolly. “I always feel like SHIELD doctors are working an angle, and I wouldn’t have a clue where I could draw the line with a civilian over classified intel.”

Natasha does smile, then. A playful thing, the look in her twinkling eyes when she glances over at him, batting her eyelashes like a pin up girl and smirking like a killer.

“It’s true,” she says with a sad nod of her head. “Captain America taking it up the ass would probably be worth a lot of money to TMZ. Imagine the storm on Fox News.”

Steve laughs, loudly, and looks up high at the stars above them as he pulls away.

“Enough, Romanoff,” he says as he clears his throat, and hopes it’s too dark for her to see the blush he can feel in his cheeks.

“Hey,” Natasha cries. _“You _wanted to talk about Barnes. You holding out on me now, Cap? Come on. Was he a big boy or –”

“I’m not talking to you about this,” he tells her, looking back with an attempt of a scowl on his face. It’s somewhat hindered by the way she presses one index finger to his scorching cheekbone.

“Gonna catch fire, Rogers,” she says with a lengthy Brooklyn drawl layered over her voice. “Alright.”

Some of the humour vanishes from the curve of her mouth, but doesn’t vanish entirely. Steve feels a little like he’s seeing her better now than he ever has done before, seeing more of her in the cover of midnight, fully clothed, and not even completely looking at him. Something in the mountains has caught her eye.

“I don’t know if I can be as forthcoming as you want me to be,” she says with a warning in her tone. Natasha Romanoff doesn’t make promises she cannot keep. “Secret-keeping is in my nature, and there’s a reason most stuff about Clint and I are only rumours.”

“I understand,” Steve says, probably a little bit too eagerly, judging by the quirk of her eyebrow. He doesn’t expect her to spill everything to him, not now, not ever; he doesn’t even think he’ll ever be capable of offering her as much, either. But he’d rather talk to someone more like a friend than a professional.

He adds: “But, hey. At least we’ll have some mutually assured destruction as a failsafe.”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Steve shrugs innocently, face tilted into the warmth of the night.

“You’re right, TMZ would be all over Captain America taking it up the ass. They’d probably love to know the Black Widow is a _talker, _too.”

Natasha turns her head away, but she’s too late. He’s caught the edge of her smile, the way it dimples her face and brightens the green of her eyes. He’s made her smile, has actually managed it, and it’s far away from a laugh but it’s a long way from tears, too, and it’s good enough, for now.

He’s good enough, and so is she. They are good enough.

In the early morning – a grey Grecian dawn, speckled pink sunrise through the slits of the window.

Her thighs are damp, sticky at his hips; a fist in his hair, nails embedded in his chest. The purple imprints of his hands shine from her knees to her waist. When she leans close, she asks, the words wet from her mouth to his own: “Still think this is a bad idea?”

He bucks up inside her, a reflex against her when she clenches around his dick.

“Yup,” he says through his snapping teeth. “Best bad idea you’ve h-had all year.”

Natasha laughs, and sits back up. The heel of her hand bruises into his diaphragm. Her eyes are glistening, golden green in the young sunlight. Steve keeps his eyes open, just in case, for a single devastating moment, he forgets.

**(a moment in time, suspended, clung to)**

**behind allied lines – 1943**

**steve rogers**

They find each other. It’s what they do. What they’ll always do.

It’s late by the time Steve drags himself out of Colonel Phillips’ presence, the day he earns his stripes.

He can just about con himself that that’s the last debrief he’ll have on the subject of his unsanctioned operation into the pits of Azzano. He can just about believe that’s the end of it, after several gruelling hours of promises and nodded heads and _Yessirs _and _Nossirs_ and a smirk like a shark’s hunger on Howard Stark’s face.

Steve withdraws from the tent, trudging into the loud night, where his back is clapped again and again, and he’s saluted and cheered for and he forces a smile onto his face as he makes his way to the overcrowded medical bay.

Before he can go inside, however, he’s stopped by a sharp hand on his arm.

Looking to the side, he sees a thin faced man that it takes a moment to place. Dernier, the French Resistance fighter. He’s wearing a set of loaned US regs, two sizes too big for him, and there’s a grim smile etched onto his face.

Steve opens his mouth to ask what he can do for the guy, but Dernier just shakes his head.

“Il n'est pas là,” Dernier says sternly.

_He’s not there._

For one defensive moment, Steve nearly asks, _Who?_

But Dernier’s eyes aren’t to be fooled. He sucks on a cigarette through his pained grin and waves Steve away from Medical with an impatience to rival the stirring in Steve’s gut.

Steve goes, momentarily lost. His head and heart raging a battle that his feet, ultimately, win. He drifts through sticky, dew wet ground, all the way to the tent he’d been afforded, begrudgingly, when he’d first arrived in his monkey suit. Now, it seems like every possible courtesy is being violently thrown his way, a showering of gratitude he can’t fathom the weight of.

For a solitary moment he is filled to the brim with crippling, bone deep dread. He steps inside the cramped quarters, and he shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t.

He isn’t, really. Because he’s there, of course he is. He’s here.

_Il est là._

James Buchanan Barnes, in all his torn up, lost lamb glory.

_Bucky._

Bucky’s standing stock still at the bottom of the bunk in his tent. He might have been there half a minute, or he might have been waiting for hours.

His shoulders are rigid, his spine registration straight. He stares over the low standing cot, to the blank fabric wall of the tent, still dressed in the tattered, mucky remains of the clothes he’d been wearing as they marched all through the night and half the day, side by side. Exhaustion hovers around him like a shroud and Steve’s struck by the terrible sensation that were he to reach out, his hand would pass right through Bucky, ghostlike, as eerie as the blank expression on his face.

“At ease, soldier,” Steve says, a little teasing to hide the tremor trapped in his throat, scratching at his oesophagus like a cat’s claws.

Bucky flinches, as if he had not heard Steve come in. As the meagre tent door flap drops closed behind Steve, they’re left in the mostly dark, only the weak light of the single lamp that’s been left inside leaving scarred shadows that splash across Buck’s lost, perfect face.

Steve tries to smile, but he thinks he doesn’t quite manage it, because the sound that drops out of Bucky’s mouth is a tumbling vowel of raw hurt, angry and mean as a cornered cat. His blue eyes are almost violet in the darkness, glinting like old pennies at the bottom of a well.

Bucky takes an aborted step forwards, towards Steve, only to try and back away.

For the first time in their lives, Steve’s too quick for him.

He takes hold of Bucky with both his hands and crushes him into his chest. There’s barely a moment of struggle, all elbows and ribcage before Bucky’s entire weight sags into him, his ankles buckle and his knees follow, his hands biting hard into Steve’s sides and his face into the hollow of his neck.

Steve presses his mouth into the sweat matted thatch of Bucky’s dark hair.

He smells of open flames and flayed skin and dirty clothes, smells of the mud he hasn’t scrubbed off yet and the blood he hasn’t cleaned up yet and Steve wants nothing more than to close his eyes and be back in their apartment at home. To be in that shitty little bedsit with the bath with the grimy cracks in it, so he can pour cupfuls of poorly warmed water over Bucky’s head, clean the dirt from his skin and soothe the injuries littering his body, kiss his mouth and keep him close, just _keep _him.

Maybe something of his wants bleed through him into Bucky, because Buck pulls away unsteadily, just far enough to tip his head up. Steve isn’t much taller than him, but it’s a damn sight different to the last time they’d been close enough to touch each other so freely in solitude, far across the Atlantic, and Bucky’s eyes are suddenly the bluest of blues even in the darkness, those penny glints flashing lucky in his smile and his eyelashes stuck together in clumps.

He opens his mouth and a dry rasp comes out.

“Not used to seeing you from this angle,” Buck says with a lying quirk in his lips, because ain’t that the boldest of untruths right there. How many times has Steve looked down at this face? Bucky Barnes, with those eyes and that mouth that could fell an oak tree in a heartbeat, on his knees for Steve Rogers at nothing more than the tilt of his head.

He’s bruised up and torn down, pulled apart and put together, and he’s still the most beautiful thing Steve’s ever seen.

Steve means to say something in response but he can’t. Felled like an oak tree by those eyes, that mouth. He can’t do anything except press his own mouth hard against Bucky’s, swallowing down the responding whisper of his name.

_“Please,” _Bucky gasps when Steve tries to back up, grabs him tighter than ever and yanks him hard, stumbling backwards and before Steve can regain his balance enough for both of them, he’s being pulled downwards, sprawled flush against Bucky across the bed, and the cot gives a brief shriek of protest under their combined weight.

Their faces bump against each other, silent laughter sticking staccato in their mouths that quickly melts back into something heavier, something darker and deeper, that would not survive the light of day.

It’s almost pitch black, and the tent is on the outskirts of the camp, but this, this is _stupid. _This is _stupid stupid stupid _and Steve tries to wrap his tongue around a single word of disapproval but instead he’s just licking tiny sad noises out of Bucky’s open mouth. He’s warm and small, writhing under Steve’s bulk, a shaking creature trapped between his arms and the brackets of his knees.

“Bucky,” Steve tries to say but it’s eaten up by the long stream of whimpers that spill out of Bucky’s mouth as he hauls Steve closer, keeps him there with feeble, needy tugs.

_“Please please Steve Steve don’t don’t please please,” _he’s saying, twitching his fingers over and around the uniform stretched across Steve’s back.

Steve sits further up on his knees, his hands cupping sharp collarbones, fingers closing around a strained, twisting neck. He looks down at the wild-eyed wreck beneath him, blood and mud smeared across the sheets beneath him, and for one terrible, incongruous moment he thinks to himself: _That’s not Bucky Barnes._

Wretched, gruesome thought.

Not Bucky, that’s not _Bucky._

Bucky’s not so small, not so stretched, not so bruised. He doesn’t choke breathlessly with fright, doesn’t reach up like that with trembling hands, so terrified to be more than five inches apart. Doesn’t wet his lips and whimper with a blush burning through the grime clinging to a bony face.

It’s not Steve’s Bucky, lying under him, hands shaking, tears spilling out over his bruised cheeks.

Until, that is.

“Christ, R-Rogers, don’t be a punk, OK?” he stammers on a harsh exhale, sucking in a damp breath and it splits Steve’s frown into a beaming smile he couldn’t possibly wipe away, not even under pain of death.

He reaches out to wrap his hands around Bucky’s face, has never been able to hold him so still with such little effort before now, as he leans in to kiss his slack mouth, pushing down into the hard cradle of his hips just to feel the stutter of his whole body.

Of course it’s Steve’s Bucky. Who else could it be?

“Ssh,” Steve tells him, promises it into his teeth. “I’m gonna take care a you,” he says, and Bucky laughs another of those horrible drawling laughs, like the one from the table he’d been strapped to. A little hysterical, a lot insincere.

“Th-thought I was dead,” Bucky tells him, all wet mouth and jerking legs and clasping fingers. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Steve, I’m sorry.”

Steve hasn’t a damn clue what he’s sorry for, but he bestows ten thousand forgiving kisses over his face and neck and hands, down the grubby heaving of his chest, the lean stretch of his belly, just to shut him up.

“I’ll always find you,” Steve says. Kisses it into him, tattoos it with his tongue, stinging over three thin cuts below Bucky’s ribs and he shivers at the cold untuck of his shirt when Steve peels it away. “I found you. I’ll find you. I promise. I promise.”

Bucky makes a harsh sound that he cuts off with clenched teeth, crying through his closed lips, angry tears and angrier hands.

“The fuck did you do to yourself, Stevie,” he snarls under his breath, and Steve laughs, and kisses the very centre of Bucky’s chest as it rises and falls with the panic still electric in the shine of his blue eyes.

Steve kisses him quiet, crowds him into the cot. Dirties the sheets bloody and mucky with one hand over Bucky’s mouth and their foreheads pressing matching bruises into each other as they ride it out, hard cocks and harsh breaths, the terror and the wanton fury, and the promises they nearly broke.

When they catch their breaths, pants caught at the top of their laced-up boots around their ankles and their shirts only half torn off at their shoulders, Steve lies along the length of Bucky Barnes, covering up every exposed inch of him with his own body. As if he might shield him from all the world forever, right there, in that uncomfortable cot that’s filthy and rumpled and not big enough for one grown man, let alone two.

Bucky runs his thumb from the cut of Steve’s hairline, down the crevice of his spine, all the way to the dent of his tailbone.

“Made it all OK,” he says quietly, still sniffing every few minutes, his rogue tears wet on Steve’s cheeks. “Knowing you were too far away to get hurt by it all.”

Steve kisses the patch of skin closest to his mouth, and pushes the heel of his hand down where it rests against Buck’s thigh, just to feel his legs twitch together, then apart.

“Had to fucking take it from me, didn’t you,” Bucky says.

Steve’s never heard him like that before, never known him to be bitter. Even at his most desperate, Bucky was never bitter, not about anything.

He doesn’t bother pointing it out. How there’s never been anything Bucky was unwilling to give Steve before. How it shouldn’t be a surprise, not to either of them, that Steve would take that shred of comfort away from him, too.

**fortress**

**hawk**

The Hawk wakes up changed.

It doesn’t always happen. Sometimes he wakes up and he is the same as when he went to sleep. But every now and then, he wakes up and he is changed.

This time, the Hawk knows he is different straight away.

He feels – _less. _Not smaller, exactly, but reduced. He opens his eyes and sees wall. Stone. Beneath him, a sturdy cot. The weight of the wings heavy over his back, pressure on his lungs shifting with every slow, stilted breath. There is a commotion behind him, and he wants to know what it is. A screaming, screeching wail. Metal and magic, biting in his ears.

The Hawk breathes slowly, listening to the frightful voices. They are speaking a language he does not know. It’s familiar, but the words are a mystery, even if the terror of their tone is not. The Hawk listens, and breathes deeply. The taste of pyrite on his tongue, copper in his teeth. Somebody is crying, whimpering. A few broken phrases repeating.

They are praying. Whoever they are, their God is not listening.

The Hawk barely stirs.

Fingertips brush the back of his neck, a warning pressure at the very top of his spine. Not a threat. He knows that touch, the unyielding weight of titanium. The Soldier is close, the smell of frost and iron. The Hawk stays where he is, under the Soldier’s guiding hand.

“Безопасный,” he says. Safe. Secure. Safe here. The Hawk trusts him. “Будь спокоен.”

_Be quiet,_ the Hawk can be quiet. There is quiet inside him, a quiet that belongs to waiting. He would wait for hours, in the scorch of sunlight and the soak of thunderstorms, no louder than the very blood rushing through his veins. Wait for what, exactly? He can’t remember. A target. A mission. Below him, far away. He’d see them from a distance, between his fingers –

What? The Hawk clenches his jaw tight. He can’t remember, can’t –

“Безопасный,” the Soldier repeats. Safe.

His thumb is pressing directly above the first notch in the metal spine that’s burning deep in the Hawk’s back.

A promise.

The Hawk breathes deeply, and listens.

“Again,” Halford says for the twelfth time.

The Hawk gets back up for the twelfth time.

His landing had been almost entirely silent, that time. The snicker-woosh of air passing between the plates of the wings little more than breath between lips. He looks at Halford, who is holding her pen but hasn’t written anything down. Vigilant at her shoulder, the Soldier. His face is uncovered today, his eyes locked on the Hawk like a scope to a target.

The Hawk straightens his spine, stretches the wings behind him, raises his arms and leaps – leaps higher, quicker, _lighter, _than ever before.

“Lucky thirteen?” Kapanen says from the ground. Unlike Halford, he hasn’t stopped writing. His gaze is caught in perpetual motion, moving between the book in his lap and the Hawk with rhythmic sweeps of attention.

The Hawk swings up towards the highest beam, the weight of the wings a powerful momentum, now, and not the hindrance they had been the first time he tried. In no time at all, he’s standing on the highest platform, twice as far above the ground as the first assault course they’d given him.

“Czekać!” Halford says. The Hawk dutifully waits as commanded. She turns to the Soldier. “Climb up to him.”

The Soldier makes his way to the lowest beam, preparing to jump. The metal squeaks in protest as the Soldier hauls himself up. He’s stronger than the Hawk, but significantly heaver for it. However silently he can tread when he needs to, it takes much more effort for him to remain graceful as he swings up towards the rafters.

“Hawk,” Halford says loudly. “I want you to grab the Soldier on your way down. Soldier, don’t let him.”

The Hawk watches the bulky lines of the Soldier as he clambers up. He’s already over halfway. Their eyes meet, briefly, for a bare second the Soldier’s chin drops towards his chest. A nod, encouraging and small. The Soldier kicks a leg up to hook himself onto the next beam, his back momentarily turned.

The Hawk leaps, wings outstretched.

He manages to the same long circular swoop as last time, tilting into the glide to narrowly avoid two perpendicular beams. Gravity pulls at him, but the angle is correct, and the Soldier is right there. The Hawk reaches his hands out, the Soldier rolling out of the way, launching up towards the next platform, close – so close – almost out of reach –

The Soldier’s metal arm makes a loud clang as it knocks a metal bar, fingers closing around it tightly enough the dent the pole. His legs swing, knees bending.

The Hawk grabs him by both ankles and yanks _hard._

The Soldier’s gasp of air is knocked out of him as he loses his grip.

All metal and muscle, he drops fast, fingers reaching to scrabble at his ankles but it’s too late. His weight takes them both, and the smooth grace of the Hawk’s winged descent becomes the plummet of water over a cliff face.

The air rushes fast, and the Soldier cries out, a sound of terror the Hawk has never heard before, not even when the Soldier is bleeding has he ever sounded afraid. The noise wrenches in the Hawk’s lungs, rings in his head. With a bellowing grunt of effort he tries to haul the Soldier up, wings catching uselessly at each metal beam they pass.

For one long, loud moment they scramble to clutch and push each other – the Soldier’s hands bruise the Hawk’s waist, the Hawk’s wings cut and curve over the Soldier’s arms. The air rushes about them, the ground is approaching fast – too fast. They are going to break apart into fragments on the ground.

The Hawk’s arms lock tight around the Soldier’s upper body, he uses one last shove of his shoulders to pull the Soldier beneath him, wings arcing down and –

Pain explodes through the Hawk’s nervous system.

His throat tears open a wordless cry. His spine is outside his body, his organs are displaced, he’s on _fire. _The metal bands circling his torso to keep the wings balanced have driven deep into his ribs and stomach. The tips of the wings, pointing downwards, have driven deep into the stone floor, keeping him aloft, keeping the Soldier trapped in his grip barely inches above the ground.

“Mitä helvettiä?” Kapanen gasps, standing up so quickly his chair topples to the floor behind him.

The Hawk’s cheek is pressed against the Soldier’s head. The Soldier’s hands have broken skin on both of his sides.

“Son of a bitch,” Halford says with a breathy chuckle.

After a moment, the Hawk loosens his arms, and the Soldier lowers himself to the floor, frowning up at him. He looks to each side, taking in the wings buried Excalibur deep into the floor on either side of him.

“Did it hurt?” he asks, very quietly.

The Hawk thinks the Soldier has asked him that before, though he can’t remember when. He closes his eyes and lets out another whimper of pain. The force of the landing has jarred something in his spine, though whether the bones inside him or the metal outside him, he doesn’t know. He can’t tell the difference anymore.

He’s barely aware of Halford’s proximity until her hands are brushing over the tops of the wings. Kapanen is somewhere behind them, above them. The Soldier is safe, close, unhurt. His eyes are bluest blue, like the ocean. Has the Hawk ever seen the ocean? He’s not sure.

The Soldier puts his hand over the Hawk’s heaving chest, withdrawing when the Hawk bites back another sound of pain. It’s radiating out of him, shaking and shrieking in his nerve endings. Something is wrong, something is broken, maybe him, maybe he’s wrong, maybe he’s broken. Halford is making humming sounds and the Hawk can smell blood and wet marker pen tracing over his skin.

“Well done,” she says, and the praise washes over him but it does nothing to soothe the fire searing through him. “Get Juliano. His ribs are probably broken, too.”

There’s the sound of rapid footsteps, Kapanen retreating through the east corridor. The Soldier is lying perfectly still, waiting for instruction. Blue and blinking, watching. Watching. The Hawk watches back, afraid of the hands above him even as he craves their touch.

Cool fingertips rest on the back of his neck.

They aren’t as comforting as the Soldier’s.

“You’re nearly ready,” Halford says, in a distracted, hungry voice.

The Hawk tries to say something but it’s all vowels, three languages at once.

The Soldier blinks up at him, doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move an inch. When the Hawk lets the weight of his head drop down, their foreheads are pressing against each other.

The Soldier makes a tight sound in the back of his throat.

**(отчет trans. DOCTOR C-------- H------ ASSIGNED HANDLER --/--/2012 - present** **EVALUATION REPORT – ASSET EVOLUTION: HAWK [B-----, C------] --/--/2013)**

_Phase 3 / CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL **Active  
**ASSET fully responsive to direct order. Displays majority response to implicit order over 80% of the time. Verbal confirmation required for non-direct handler authority. ASSET displays high dependence on clear chain of command.  
5 of 6 dosages of **pre-Ext **successfully administered over course of 7 WEEKS. Final dose scheduled for --/--/2013 following final routine testing. Zero medical anomalies present at time of report. Rate of skeletal fracture reduced by 65% following simultaneous intravenous therapy of FLOURIDE and TESTOSTERONE with **pre-Ext**._

** _WING Evolution _ ** _overseen by ASSIGNED HANDLER with supporting oversight of Doctor O--- J------ and Doctor L---- K------. At this time ASSET is ruled to be neither combat ready nor flight ready. Estimated progress for combat: less than three months. Estimated progress for flight: less than six months._

_Re-evaluation following final dosage of **pre-Ext **requires approval of present ASSIGNED HANDLER._

**a memory, or a fantasy**

She’s wearing the purple gown this time. The one with the thigh slit high enough to reveal the tattoo she’s had temporarily drawn on, a scripted circlet of crows kissing a bare inch from her buttock, all the way around her leg. He kissed them last night, each crow’s wing, and she pulled his hair. Told him: _No, don’t lick them off, you monster. _Now they merely peek through the gap in the byzantium silk clinging to her, creaseless as water. She’s forgone jewellery this time, her neckline is adorned only by the scent of her perfume and the sheer valleys of her prominent collar bones. Her long, pale neck is exposed, hair pinned up in careless curls that flutter around her distracting face. She’s an effortless creature, and she looks at him through bronze eyelashes and her mouth parts in a chime of laughter that all the men about her lean into, but he knows that laugh, the cadence of it. It lives inside his heart. It means: _I am more lethal than you might dream of; this time tomorrow, you will be dead._

He sits at the bar and pretends not to watch her every move.

Their target slinks across the room.

Her eyes are green, liquid fury concealed by the breadth of her charm.

**washington dc**

**black widow**

Natasha lets herself in through the front door.

It’s not exactly easy, avoiding the alarms, but she keeps a mental note to get the security upgraded pronto. What is SHIELD _doing _these days? They’ve got a one-of-a-kind super soldier (that hefty, high value black market material walking around with his golden retriever glory) living in this building. They should be more careful, because goodness knows Captain Justice Of America won’t be.

It’s not the one-of-a-kind super soldier she’s here to see, however, but rather his neighbour.

She helps herself to some juice from the refrigerator – orange and mango, another mental note, this one to slap Agent Thirteen upside the head for poor taste – and waits at the kitchen table. She texts Sharon in advance, because while it’s unlikely surprising the woman will result in fatalities, it would probably lead to a spot of property damage.

Fifty minutes later an irate, red-faced Sharon Carter stalks through her front door.

“Do you seriously live here even when Steve is out of town?” Natasha asks coolly.

Sharon busies herself shrugging off her tan leather jacket and slinging it over the table surface. She pours herself a glass of juice, eyes Natasha’s empty glass suspiciously, and makes clear with a scowl she won’t be answering facetious questions.

“There’s a mole in MI6,” Natasha says.

Sharon is more than well-versed in polite, schooled responses. Whether this news surprises her or not, her face betrays only curiosity as to why on god’s green earth she should care.

“I’ve found a name in some buried files. Carlotta Cornwell. She shows up four times in about six thousand pages.”

“Well that sounds promising,” Sharon finally retorts, unhelpfully dry as she slides onto a stool, elbowing her jacket out of the way. “How did you get your hands on six thousand pages of MI6 files? Other than from a _mole, _I mean, which would be the most logical explanation.”

Natasha barely conceals an eyeroll.

“I have a source. They’re a concerned party.” She leaves the _like us _silent, but Sharon must catch it because she doesn’t snip back. “Three mentions of Cornwell make it sound like she’s a low-level mechanical engineer. But the fourth is in a redacted chemical weapons report following a break-in that nearly caused a town to be levelled in Shropshire.”

“Natasha –”

“It’s the only anomaly,” Natasha says, pushing her glass aside with the heel of her hand to lean onto the table. Sharon looks reluctant, sitting back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest. “Every single other person in that report is accounted for. She doesn’t make sense.”

“If this Cornwell had something to do with the break-in, don’t you think MI6 would have found it?”

“Only if they were looking properly.”

Sharon’s gust of a sigh is loud, tremorous like a laugh as she throws her hands uselessly up.

“You are _looking _for inadequacy, Natasha.”

“Yes, I am!” Natasha snaps back, louder than she’d intended. Her chest is suddenly tight. “Because inadequacy is how things go unaccounted for. It’s how agents die, or go missing, and their agency sits on their file for fourteen months!”

She shouldn’t have slammed her hand on the table as she said it. She reins her anger back in but it’s too late. She’s unleashed a fraction of the monstrous desperation that’s been eating her raw from the inside for over a year and Sharon has seen it.

“Natasha,” she says, as soft and downy as new feathers. Her eyes are big and round and so full of the most unwelcome kind of sympathy. She stands up out of her stool. “I found something, too.”

She leaves the kitchen, doesn’t bother turning any other lights on as she goes, and Natasha listens to her footsteps, and what sounds like the beep of a safe, before she quickly returns carrying a single sheet of paper. Sharon places the sheet of paper on the table as she returns to her seat, spinning it towards Natasha and pushing it over.

Natasha picks it up, eyes skimming the words.

She doesn’t have to look further than the date and the name of the doctor on call, however, before she scrunches the paper up violently in her hand and, in a peak of childish frustration, throws it onto the kitchen floor. Sharon flinches.

“Don’t you dare,” Natasha snarls.

She’s had enough of this, more than enough of it, from every single medical professional in SHIELD by this point.

“I’m sorry,” Sharon says, and the worst part is she _sounds _it. “I’m sorry. Natasha. If he’s tried before –”

“That was different,” Natasha interrupts through gritted teeth, her gaze fixed on her own clenched hands to avoid the temptation to throw something other than paper at something other than the floor.

“Why?” Sharon asks softly. “Because he didn’t have you?”

Natasha is _offended. _She’s offended for so many reasons that she couldn’t even possibly articulate them all. For herself, for her self-respect, for her very accurate sense of self-worth. For Clint, for his self-respect, for his own sense of self-worth. For the disgust of the sheer sentiment, to think that even if Clint had –

“Because he was pumped full of hallucinogenic drugs at the time,” she says as calmly as she possibly can through the vibration of her annoyance.

“And Namibia?”

“Don’t,” Natasha scoffs.

She isn’t going to entertain this. Not for one second.

“I’m just saying, Natasha,” Sharon continues and Natasha wishes she’d be more obnoxious about it, less _earnest _about it, so she could at least justify smashing the empty glass onto her hand, but she _can’t. _“We have to consider every option –”

“This is not an option.”

“Because you don’t want it to be one?”

“Because it isn’t one!”

Natasha stands up as she says it. Can’t help herself. Can’t _sit. _Can’t sit here and listen to yet another person tell her Clint’s at the bottom of the Hudson, or a quarry, or a garbage pile. That he put himself there, that he succumbed to the call of the void.

She looks over at Sharon, and sees this time, she’s frowning.

“You would never accept that level of logic from another agent,” Sharon says angrily and _fuck _but it’s the truth. It’s the absolute truth. It’s checkmate and she knows it and Natasha knows it but it’s _different, _it’s not _logic, _it’s just the truth. “I’m sorry,” Sharon says again, and this time it’s not for Clint, it’s for herself, it’s for Natasha, and it’s even worse than before. “I am sorry, Natasha. But I think –”

Natasha laughs harshly, shaking her head. Her chest tightening, her eyes stinging. She hisses through her bared teeth and imagines him right behind her, the shape of his shadow as it crosses over her own.

“– that Barton is dead. You said it yourself, it’s been fourteen months.”

Natasha looks at the closed blinds covering the window. Sunlight is still pouring through, spilling out of the gaps.

“Don’t do this,” she says, just once.

She won’t ask again. In her periphery, she sees Sharon look down at her lap, or her hands, or the table.

“He’s gone.”

Natasha clenches her jaw, one tiny nod. If that’s how she feels, then, what is Natasha still here for?

She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a thumb drive. She slams it a little too heavily down onto the table, and barely refrains from reminding Sharon not to go blathering about what’s on it to anybody else. She’s not going to. Self-interest alone would halt her tongue, but even foggy with frustration as she is, Natasha knows Sharon’s at least far from driven by self-interest alone.

“MI6 has a mole. SHIELD does, too. They might even turn out to be connected.”

Sharon reaches over and picks it up, watching silently as Natasha calmly pushes her stool out, then makes towards the front door. She can feel Sharon’s eyes on her, big and sad and sorrowful, and a surge of pettiness floods her, making her turn on her heel to look back.

“You know, Clint’s always liked you. Sang your praises after you were given Thirteen. I always worried you’d turn out to be nothing more than the inevitable pseudo-mommy issues that would come from having someone like _Aunt Peggy _around as a kid.”

She’s inverted steel. She’s a one-way window reflecting back the worst of Natasha’s impulses.

She’s a crystal statue – Natasha could reach out with one finger, one push, and smash her to pieces.

Before she can do any further damage, Natasha turns around and leaves, letting the door close gently behind her. If it’s regret bruising her constricted chest as she dashes down the stairs and out into the street, well.

Nobody else needs to know.

She thinks about last year. The colour of Steve’s cheeks, the hoarseness of his voice, when he admitted that the anger living inside him far outweighed the tranquillity in Barnes.

She can empathise, in some way. There’s always a hostile anger in Clint, it bursts out of him when he isn’t careful. But even the hottest scorch of his rage can’t hold a candle to the meanness of Natasha’s nastiest edges.

It’s a dull enough drive from D.C. to New York City even with company.

By herself, it’s about twelve years off her life.

Clint would protest the lack of music.

He would belt out a cappella Springsteen and Dylan and even some Jagger – complete with an atrociously exaggerated accent – making up half the lyrics because he’s culturally illiterate about everything he doesn’t absolutely _have _to keep up with for missions. Boy could list colloquialisms for Class As of every genre in eight different languages but he still can’t name three chart toppers from last decade.

Natasha smiles to herself, misremembered words to _Idiot Wind _caught between her teeth.

There’s a peach stone lump in the back of her throat the whole way.

By the time she reaches Brooklyn, the day is mostly tucked into the bed of the horizon. Bruised clouds blanket the sky, and there’s a breeze scraping up and down the sidewalks. Coat collars are clutched to throats, heads are bowed down.

Natasha parks the car ten blocks away and walks, stopping in the first shop she comes across to buy a hooded sweater. It’s burgundy, and the hood is big enough to cover all her hair once she’s tucked it behind her ears. She walks the route with the fewest cameras, enters the building complex and legs the stairs two at a time all the way to the fifth floor.

For one surreal moment, as she lifts the single yale key she’s fished out of her pocket, she imagines the locks have been changed.

The next, the image changes and instead, she’s going to open the door and he’s going to be in there, waiting for her. Laughing. Smirking. Sprawled on the couch, windswept and breathless, and she’ll throw her shoe at him and say _That wasn’t funny _and he’ll apologise but she won’t hear it over the rush of blood pounding in her ears –

The apartment, of course, is empty.

Natasha’s stomach drops in her gut, anyway. As if there’d been any kind of a chance. Even though that’s foolish, because she hadn’t really believed it; belief is for children and she is not child. Never was one, not really.

Not in her nature.

_(No, _he’d said in response. _No. Not in your nurture. _She’d slapped him, ashamed, and kissed his red cheek, a sorry thing, they both were.)

The apartment, of course, is empty.

Natasha locks the door from the inside, and does her routine sweep for bugs.

There’s nothing, just as she expected. The only person who’d dare hasn’t dared in four years. When she puts the ceiling fixture back in place, she coughs up a swirl of dust that has dislodged from the lampshade. It tickles over her face, up her nose, coating her teeth, and she jumps back off the chair she’s standing on.

An irrational, volcanic upset bubbles under skin, looking at the cloud of dust and debris, the thin film of it in the window ledge, and the floor, and the shelves.

It’s so unclean, so unlived in, and maybe it had always been a bit perpetually neglected. Between missions and downtime and training and safehouses stashed across the globe, they hardly had a regular cleaning schedule, but this, this is –

Abandonment. This is a forgetfulness that reeks of death, haunted by ghosts of the living.

Natasha rubs the grime from her face and heads straight to the kitchen. The cupboard under the sink is well enough stocked, and she scoops everything out with a swipe of her forearm. Bottles and sachets and packets litter the floor and when she ties her hair back off her face, she feels the quietude of an operation brief settle over her.

Wet cloths, dry cloths. Polish. Varnish. Anti-bacterial spray. Shelves and windows. The floors. Hoover the couch and change the bedsheets. Empty the fridge of its disgusting breeding ground and finally, after three-no-four-now years of putting it off, get around to fixing the broken handle on the bathroom door.

Sinks. Mirrors. Shoe rack. Toilet. Bathtub. Boiler closet. Medicine cabinet.

The arsenal in the hollow wall behind the closet.

It takes almost three hours. By the time Natasha stops moving long enough to catch her breath, the apartment is sparkling. Her nose is stinging from the lemony bleach that had actually gotten the worst of that red wine stain out of the floorboards near the couch, and she can taste like a perfume in the air the pungent lavender cotton of the laundry loads drying on the clothes horse.

Eventually, she picks the lock of the false back of the cabinet full of books in the living room – a well curated library, they’d taken stupid pleasure in adopting the yuppy duo personas of the man who collects first editions and the woman who collects art catalogues.

Secreted behind them, she pulls out a wallet in a sealed bag, stuffed to overspill from years of stolen snapshots, even a few scrounged archive gems, and the odd updated school photos Barney Barton would send of his kids.

Natasha plucks one out at random.

Kansas City in summer, sweat pouring down Clint’s scowling face. His tongue poking pink between his bared teeth as he concentrates too hard on carrying four perfectly level drinks, two in each hand and not a drop spilled.

Two seconds after the photo was taken, he’d sneezed, dousing himself in four freezing double gin and tonics.

The look on his face – Natasha had been too busy enjoying his shocked dismay to capture it on camera.

Natasha puts the photo, and the wallet, and the zip lock bag, out of sight, safely hidden behind the collected works of James Joyce.

She strips off her clothes and tosses them into the machine, padding silently through the apartment into the bathroom and stepping straight into the shower.

The glass door snips shut behind her, and the water blasts chilly from the shower head. She shivers, rubbing her hands together in front of her chest as she waits for it to warm up. Facing the wall, the door slightly ajar out of the corner of her eye despite the fixed door handle, that ruinous instinct hardens in her chest as she imagines the door pulled open – his silhouette. Broad shoulders, scruffy hair.

Slowly, the water warms up, and Natasha dips her head under the spray, letting it soak down her back.

The temperature increases, but her hands are still shaking. She scratches them through her soaked hair, down the back of her neck. In the violent silence, she is alone. She’s alone.

He’s not here.

Clint is not here, and she hasn’t a clue where he is.

She doesn’t know where he is, what he’s doing, what he’s thinking. If he’s hurting, if he’s afraid. If he thinks she’s given up on him. If he’s given up on her.

A sound rips out of her. A jumbling tangle of regret and fury and despair.

Natasha raises both her hands and hits the tiles on either side of the shower hard with the heels of her palms, relishes the deep throb of pain that radiates up to her elbows but it isn’t enough.

Wretched sobs curl up in her throat and she chokes them out, and once they start they don’t seem to want to end. She grits her teeth and she yells, yells his name, yells his soul, the water burning her shoulders pink and she scratches at her eyes and in a whipping turn before she can stop herself, she punches the glass door hard.

Shards scrape up her wrist as fragments shatter on the ground. Bits of glass glitter crimson in her hand and she brings it close to her chest, close enough that water starts to seeps over it, and soon there’s a thin pinkish orange puddle circling the drain of the shower.

Her crying stoppers up, like a cork in a bottle from the surprise at her own actions.

_Not your smartest move, Nat, _Clint would tell her, with that overly sorrowful sigh, looking disappointed, and she’d sniff at him pointedly and pretend not to care but he’d know the truth.

Natasha stares at the deep scratches. The worst are grooved into her knuckles and the back of her hand. She hisses at the sting as she cautiously unclenches her fist, picking out two big teeth of glass stuck in the biggest gashes.

She breathes once, and twice, waiting for the explosive adrenaline to rattle out of her.

It almost seems like a moment between heartbeats – she’s coiled tight and furious, then, she’s exhausted.

She’s _exhausted._

Natasha closes her eyes, tipping back her head into the scalding water.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, just once.

She turns off the water. Nudges the spider’s web of a glass door open and steps out far enough to avoid the pieces of glass glistening over the white floor. Blood drips from her cupped wrist, leaving a trail of crimson splatters and wet footsteps along her path out to the hallway.

It’s a slow, laborious process cleaning up – antiseptic swabs stinging the cuts as she cleans each slice, tiny pieces of glass dropped into a neat little glittering pile on the coffee table in the living room where she sits on the newly washed sofa, leaving a damp patch in the cushions as she tapes up the few deep gouges and slaps some cream on the smaller ones.

There are only two fairly small long-roll bandages in the first aid kit she’d pulled out of the kitchen, so she wraps both of them up and over her palm, the back of her hand, her wrist. Two longer scratches poke out of the back of her forearm where the dressing doesn’t quite reach.

Once the worst of the evidence is covered, Natasha returns to the bathroom, plucks a towel off a shelf and dries her hair, slipping into a pair of comfortable leggings and a hooded sweater made for a much larger frame than her own. She sweeps the glass from the bathroom floor, mops the bloody line that trickled from the shower to the living room, and makes a solid effort not to think about anything other than the menial tasks at hand.

_Hawk’s eyes and hawk’s focus, _somebody joked once when they saw her and Clint sitting side by side. It made Clint laugh, but Natasha had ignored it. She’s never felt much like a bird, the freedom of flightiness, the grace of it, the joy. There’s a reason she kept her moniker, long after cutting ties with the Red Room.

By the time she’s finished, the exhaustion has given way to a tedium that has set itself into her bone marrow. Like wildfire whatever hatred had exploded inside her has burned itself out, and it will take a while to muster again. She pulls out a laptop, balances it on her knees as she perches on the dry side of the sofa and begins to type.

Clint’s not here. She hasn’t the first clue where he might be.

She owes him. Owes it _to _him, to do more than just despair.

It’s been a while since she took a cab anywhere in New York. Some things are reliable, though, even in cities evolving quicker than its residents can keep up with. Corner shop groceries, bad window glazing and cab drivers, they’ll be the same next year as they were last year.

Natasha puts on her lazy version of grumpy millennial. The hoodie and the high waist jeans help, not to mention the high top sneakers that Clint bought her once as a terrible apology gift for failing to compliment the downright exquisite pair of Jimmy Choos she’d managed to wangle out of a mark she’d spent less than four hours effort seducing on an op.

She slouches in the back of the cab fiddling with her phone all the way to the bakery around the corner from Stark Tower, where they make the best sesame seed pretzels in Manhattan – _Nothing from Manhattan is the best in New York, you harlot! _Clint had shouted, horrified, once upon a time.

Two pretzels paper wrapped in hand, she slips as close to unseen as anyone can be while walking through the front entrance to Stark Tower, making for the nearest private quarter elevator.

_“Good evening, Agent Romanoff,” _JARVIS says, and Natasha doesn’t like the cautious kind of relief she feels in the back of her anxious mind to hear the AI. It isn’t good to rely on anyone or anything, least of all a near-sentient creation of Tony Stark’s.

“Evening, JARVIS. Can you take me to wherever Dr Banner is?”

The elevator immediately starts its ascent.

_“That would be his personal laboratory,” _JARVIS informs her.

Of course it is. Natasha doesn’t voice her concern, but isn’t surprised that JARVIS’ tone is as close to concerned as it probably can be when it tells her.

Taking a bite out of one pretzel, Natasha thanks JARVIS when the doors open and she makes her way through the labyrinthine lab where Bruce Banner is, somewhere, hiding.

She had assumed JARVIS would warn him of her approach, however when she finally locates him studying a wide translucent double-screen that seems to be displaying some sort of molecular pattern, his eyes widen a little at the sight of her.

He takes his glasses off, giving them a wipe with a corner of his shirt as he steps around the screen.

“Agent Romanoff,” he says warily, sliding his glasses back onto his face.

“Dr Banner,” Natasha replies coolly, taking a step closer to lean her hip against an empty work surface.

The lab is a hive of moving images. Unlike Tony’s workshop, which bears all the trademarks of an erratic engineer, full of half-tinkered machines and scuffed grease marks, Bruce’s lab is sparkling clean. Fridges and cabinets are clearly labelled, with a transparently walled off biohazard area that is probably adhered to with the strictest of safety precautions.

Natasha likes Bruce’s lab a lot more than Tony’s workshop. There’s a clear sense of purpose here, everything neatly arranged and accounted for with the meticulous effort of someone who prefers to remain in control of every aspect of his work.

“Tony isn’t here,” Bruce says with the same cagey tone, glancing around as if he might pop out of a vent to surprise them. “He’s – I don’t actually know where he is. Malibu, maybe? I think he and Pepper are having a hard time.”

Natasha lets out a deep sigh of pointed non-surprise.

She likes Pepper, she really does. As much as she likes anybody. But her decision-making skills leave something to be desired in the personal life category.

“Probably a breakdown in communication resulting from untreated PTSD,” she suggests. She doesn’t specify whose PTSD, exactly, but she rather thinks Tony Stark probably doesn’t get all the credit there. “I’m not here for Stark. I’m here for you.”

She holds out the second pretzel as she says it, a peace offering that Bruce accepts. He sniffs the bread first, like a suspicious cat, and Natasha doesn’t smile, but it’s a near miss. It’s a torn thing, the mixture of sweetness and sadness in how much of Bruce’s behaviour speaks loudly of that of an abused animal, still getting used to scraps of kindness.

“Last time you came looking for me, I ended up fighting aliens,” Bruce reminds her, and then does a half wincing blink down to his pretzel, like he’s worried he’s stung too close to a bone, talking about that fateful day.

Perhaps in recompense for the perceived slight, he nibbles the pretzel. Eyebrows raised in obvious pleasure, he takes a larger bite.

Natasha leans better into the worktop, her posture as relaxed as it ever gets these days.

“I’m not here as a SHIELD Agent,” she says without waiting to see if Bruce even knows what her diminished field status is these days. “Or as an Avenger.”

“What are you then?”

It’s an innocent enough question, but the obvious response gets lodged behind that peach stone lump in her throat. She’s not ready to use that word yet. Feels like a dirty, underhanded thing, to call herself a friend to any of these people.

She elects to rephrase his question for him in her head.

“I’m here to tell you something.”

Bruce licks the sesame seeds from his lips and rips another piece of pretzel to chew thoughtfully.

“I’m listening.”

He leans back on another table in the cradle of his hips, one leg lightly crossed over the other, which is about as relaxed a posture as _she’s _ever seen him in, too.

“You made a mistake,” Natasha tells him candidly.

Bruce snorts quietly through his nose, a sardonic smile appearing on his face.

“I am more than aware of that.” He sounds amused as he says it. “But, just to clarify, which mistake are we talking about this time exactly?”

Behind him, the molecular patterns on the screen start morphing into one another, splitting and reforming so quickly it’s reminiscent of a firework display.

Natasha eats another bite of pretzel before telling him:

“You ceased all contact with Betty Ross because you believed it would make her safer.”

Bruce’s eyes don’t get even close to green. Nevertheless, for a split second, they are no longer brown. His face loses some of its good-natured attentiveness, hardening at the edges as he lowers the pretzel to stare bare faced at Natasha.

“I didn’t believe. I _knew._ Hard fact.” Another laugh, spikier this time. Dryer. “There’s a whole mountain of evidence, or do you just want to see the highlight reel? Tony probably had a trailer made. He’s a big fan.”

The truth is, Bruce isn’t wrong. Tony probably _has _had a Hulk Greatest Hits trailer made. He’s only recently stopped poking Bruce with pointy things at inopportune moments. But that’s not what Natasha is here to talk about, and she’s not going to be scared off by the idea of putting Dr Banner in a bad mood. She’s seen him a whole lot worse by now, and they both know it.

“You didn’t cease all contact to keep her safe. You ceased contact to keep yourself safe from the possible guilt of hurting her. That’s not the same thing,” Natasha points out.

Bruce shrugs, and he isn’t even defensive about it, which Natasha respects a lot more than she’d thought she would.

“So?” Bruce scoffs. “She’s still safe.”

“All you did was take away her choice.”

Natasha is rarely surprised by a person’s actions, or their reactions, but Bruce catches her off guard when he nods, simply.

“Maybe.”

“It was a mistake,” she reiterates, and again, that nod. That simple nod.

“Maybe it was,” Bruce says.

He stares long and hard at his pretzel, then rips off a chunk and eats it. He looks at something over Natasha’s shoulder, but she doesn’t turn to see what it is. There’s nobody there, which means it’s a screen or an object, and she isn’t going to allow him to redirect her attention.

Behind Bruce, the firework molecules have settled into their new state, drifting around each other as if in orbit.

Natasha’s attention is brought back to Bruce when he shifts his weight, moving his other leg to the front as he leans back again. He’s picking at the sesame seeds on the pretzel wrapper, eyeing her with contemplative intent.

Bruce says: “Is that what you think Barton has done? Has he – made a mistake?”

Natasha eats another bite of pretzel, isn’t sure if she’s hiding a grimace or a smile. They feel the same, sometimes, on her face. She wonders if Bruce is right, or if she’s right, or if they both are. Or neither.

Clint’s made a hundred mistakes in his lifetime. A thousand, or more.

But so has Natasha. They both have. That’s the difference between everybody else, and the hard shell inside which they formed something more. They have seen each other’s worst mistakes, listened to each other, even seen them first hand. They forgive each other what they cannot forgive themselves. That is their primary role, their best and brightest burden.

Rather than answer, Natasha says to Bruce: “You should fix your mistake.”

Once again, instead of the defensive retort she’s anticipating, Bruce grins. It’s a brighter smile than he’s maybe ever given her before.

“I’ll take it into consideration,” he says, and perhaps even more surprising is how Natasha thinks he’s actually telling the truth. He will, in fact, take it into consideration.

They finish their pretzels in an oddly comfortably silence. As they crumple their empty wrappers, Bruce takes Natasha’s from her hands and throws them into one of the colour-coded, labelled garbage disposals lining the farthest wall.

“Was that all?” Bruce asks, rubbing his fingers together as if brushing invisible sesame seeds off them.

“Yes,” Natasha replies.

Bruce nods, glancing at the screens he’d been staring at when she came in.

“Alright, then what now?”

Natasha tilts her head to the side, rather than asking outright what he means.

“Well, I could make us some tea.”

To mask her own surprise, Natasha raises a delicate eyebrow and says: “An exceptionally British response of you.”

Bruce gives a sedate chuckle, shutting down several programmes with a few finger taps, checking on something in one of the tallest fridges and then leaving his glasses folded on top of an open book. He picks up a sweater from the back of a chair and throws it on.

“The British don’t have monopoly over tea,” he says. “Only its reputation.”

He gestures towards the door Natasha first entered through, and she steps aside to let him go first. He doesn’t seem to take it as a slight, merely walking calmly ahead of her towards the elevator.

“If you try to give me chamomile, there’ll be severe consequences,” Natasha warns him.

This time, when Bruce laughs, his head even tilts back a bit.

“I’ll take it into consideration,” he says, and safely hidden behind him, Natasha smiles. “JARVIS, the communal kitchen, please,” Bruce says once they’re inside.

_“Certainly, Dr Banner.”_

“Come on, Agent Romanoff,” Bruce says as the doors close behind them and the elevator starts moving again. “I think we both deserve a break.”

The peach stone lump in the back of her throat shrinks, just a little.

She can’t bring herself to disagree.

**fortress**

**hawk**

The Hawk wakes up changed.

Charged, a kind of burdened impulse ricochets through him. To move, to rush – to _fly._

Gravity holds tight to his guts with one hand but the other has let go. He is marble, and oxygen. He is water and cloud.

The Hawk opens his eyes.

He’s lying on a table. On one side, Halford. On the other, Kapanen.

The Hawk is sweating profusely, slippery, writhing on the table. He’s wearing thin shorts and a loose shirt. The wings aren’t attached anymore, but the metal spine they lock into keeps him slightly raised in the midriff from hips to shoulders. He rolls his head from side to side, straining. The Soldier is nowhere to be seen.

“This is _quite _the conundrum,” Halford says, however she’s smiling as she says it. Laughing, even. “You sure you don’t want to call Meisner in?”

Kapanen isn’t laughing. Still, the frown he’s wearing looks – put upon. A mask. He is only pretending to be cross with her.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Two hours, thirty-six minutes and counting,” Halford says.

She’s got her hands on the table now. She’s leaning into them. The Hawk can smell her, grease and metal and apple shampoo. She’s got a mint in her mouth as well. She keeps rolling it around her tongue, making it clack rhythmically against her teeth.

The Hawk tries to roll to face her. His body aches and his hips jerk and he chokes on saliva. He’s hard, in his trousers, he realises. It _hurts._

“I know, I know,” Halford coos. Her fingers are cold on his face. “But I’m afraid Kapanen is being a prissy little bitch about your maintenance.”

Kapanen says several loud things in another language, then. Not Norwegian, which the Hawk thinks he might recognise, but it’s familiarly Scandinavian in tone and cadence. The Hawk closes his eyes.

“What’s it to be, Lasse?” Halford asks, still stroking delicately though the oily sweat in the Hawk’s forehead. “We could get the Soldier in, if you like. I’d probably be able to unsubscribe my Pornhub account if you did that.”

“Fuck off,” Kapanen snaps, although he laughs a bit too. A shrill, uncomfortable sound.

The Hawk lets out a pleading whimper at the mention of the Soldier. Anything, _anything. _He hurts. He’s afraid. He wants the Soldier here, with him. He’s safe when the Soldier is with him, and the Soldier is safe, too. He _hurts._

“Lasse, my Hawk is about to start crying,” Halford says. There’s a reedy impatience thinning her humour. “He hasn’t cried in over six months. I’d rather like to continue that streak for the foreseeable future. Whatever you want to do about this, figure it out or I’ll call Meisner in here and let him vent his frustration.”

Kapanen mutters something else, but the Hawk doesn’t hear it over the harsh inhale of his own breath.

Then: “Hawk. Roll onto your front. Hump the table.”

Halford makes a blustered scoffing sound, but the Hawk does as he’s told. It’s painful, and difficult. The metal exoskeleton plates slide back and forth as he moves, but even the unforgiving metal table surface is a piercing relief as he lets out a pained cry and rubs himself on the table. He can hear footsteps, and rushing water, Halford says something loudly but he can’t make out the words, only Kapanen’s ringing laugh.

His hands scramble at the table, he chokes on his release as the burning starts to subside, and he catches his breath there’s a splash as a bucket of freezing water spills over him from waist to knees. He turns instinctively, water splashing his front and he gets a mouthful of it, coughing and spluttering and he nearly falls off the table, pulled backwards by the weight of the metal on his back.

The Hawk grabs the edge of the table for balance, shivering as he looks up at Halford and Kapanen. The former has her eyebrows raised high on her forehead, the latter is holding two empty buckets.

“Not very efficient,” Halford says with a hum.

“Well, time it with the hose downs,” Kapanen retorts.

“I still think the Soldier would be more entertaining.”

“Have you –”

“What? Ew, no. For God’s sake. What sort of animal do you take me for? Are you going to ask me if I had sex with my labradors when I was a teenager?”

“No, but I’m started to wonder if I should ask if you watched them have sex.”

The Hawk folds himself into the cold table as they bicker, pressing his face into a puddle of water. He casts his eyes around the room as inconspicuously as they can, but he can’t see any sign of the Soldier. Not even a secretive shadow in the corner. He’s nowhere to be found.

A drop of sound escapes him. His hands reach up to his face.

Kapanen’s voice gets further away as he walks about the room, but Halford’s is as loud as ever. He can smell oil and metal and apples and mint.

“Rumlow’s going to have a fucking ball with this one when he finds out,” she says, sounding unenthused.

“I thought you said he was one of the best?” Kapanen asks.

A hand threads through the Hawk’s hair, right over the plates in his head. He flinches, pushing up into the touch.

“He is,” Halford replies as she strokes his head. “But he’s got a thing about this one. Manera’s better. Brock’s a petty shithead, sometimes. Tried to get the Soldier to break his thumbs when we first got him here.”

“How do you know that?”

Kapanen’s footsteps return, until he’s standing close enough for the Hawk to feel his shadow.

Halford lets out a tickling laugh, soft as her fingers.

“My Soldier tells me everything, Lasse. You’ll see.”

The Hawk lifts his head, peering through his eyelashes, but all he can see is Halford and Kapanen’s torsos restricting his view, and a tiny gap between them all the way to the door of the room. The Soldier is nowhere to be seen.

“I want him first,” Manera says, when the Hawk lands on the ground, perfectly balanced in an extended glide. The seven men positioned to take him down are unconscious. He’s done it. He’s _succeeded._

Behind Manera, another agent grumbles something under his breath.

“He isn’t flight ready yet,” Halford points out as she moves. The Hawk drops to his knees at her approach. “Minor combat only. And it’s strictly guns until we can be sure the programming will hold.”

Manera nods enthusiastically.

“I’ve got just the thing, if you’re interested,” he says. “Have you heard from our old friend Aldrich, recently? He’s been quite a naughty boy.”

Halford’s hand, which had been resting lightly on top of the Hawk’s head, fists into his hair, tight enough to tug strands from his scalp.

_“I know you’re a coward, so I’ve just decided that you just died, pal. I’m gonna come get the body.”_

** _ BREAKING NEWS _ ** ** _: Billionaire TONY STARK a.k.a. IRON MAN issues direct threat against THE MANDARIN following Chinese Theatre explosion._ **

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**washington d.c.**

**secretary pierce**

“Aldrich Killian, you say?” Alexander says, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder securely before unscrewing the water bottle he’s just pulled out of the fridge and taking a swig. It stings his teeth, and he hisses.

Charlotte makes an affirmative hum through the phone. She sounds excited, has never been able to keep it out of her voice. Her mother had been the same. Her words would waver, heavy with her glee and even heavier with her hurt. It had torn at him, hearing the wobble of her tears through the phone, after Clara had taken her back across the Atlantic. Every Sunday, regular as clockwork, his heart would break for his little girl.

It’s been a long time since their Sunday afternoon phone calls, but he can still read her the way he did when she was thirteen.

“And Manera?”

_“He’s the one that brought me the intel. I’ve spoken to cells in Moscow, London and Mombasa. They all confirm the same as what Manera found in Kabul. Aldrich is warming up as a puppet master. He knows better than to direct his energy at SHIELD, so he’s going after the next best thing.”_

“The President?”

_“You haven’t been watching the news, have you?” _Charlotte asks.

Alexander glances at the blank screen of the TV, dropping into a seat and pulling up the remote. Before he can click on it, though, he chuckles as he remembers.

“Oh, Iron Man. Is he an idiot?”

_“He surrounds himself with smart people,” _Charlotte explains dryly. _“He was in my office last year a few times. Invited me to visit his lab. My boy on the inside says he’s got a thing for Stark’s girlfriend.”_

Alexander’s never met this upstart Killian, but that’s probably for the best. A man who sets his sights no higher than an uninterested piece of ass is an embarrassment far beneath the usual obstacles he expects his daughter would be dealing with these days.

He knew getting wrapped up in AIM’s finances would come back to haunt him one day.

“You think the new Asset is ready?”

_“For anything? No. For this? I’m sure of it.”_

He believes her. More than that – he _trusts her. _She’s all his, now, the way she never was in her childhood. The way her mother never allowed her to be. He hasn’t spoken to Clara in almost ten years, and he hasn’t heard Charlotte breathe a word of her, either. There’s no space in his pride to feel guilty about it.

“I want to see them in person,” he reminds her.

_“There’s another Micci Expo in Prague next month – more than justifiable networking opportunities. One of your fellow Council members will be attending,” _Charlotte suggests.

Alexander takes another sip of water.

“Sounds doable. I’ll set it up.”

_“How’s the Washington facility coming along?”_

“You’ll have to see for yourself,” Alexander tells her, pointedly. It’s been too long since his daughter left the mountains of Europe. And with first contact with Rogers in the bag, he didn’t like her being so far away for so long. They were going to need her input on Project Insight before he’d be satisfied letting it launch.

_“I look forward to it.”_

Alexander bids her goodbye, tossing the phone aside when the call ends. He drains the rest of the bottle and scrunches it in his grip reflexively. With idle disinterest, he flicks the TV on, just as the news cuts to a chopper shot of a familiar looking house at Miami Point.

“Jesus,” he mutters with a laugh. “He _is _an idiot.”

**крепость, Европа**

**солдат**

_(fortress, europe)_

_(soldier)_

The Soldier wakes up, ready to comply.

Behind him, someone pops gum inside their mouth.

_(Save your Ks, you darn waster, _someone said, once_.)_

“Why?”

“Get him inside!” “Asset is out of containment!” “Get Meisner in here now!” _ "Желание!”_ “Where is Halford?” “_Ржавый!”_ “Meisner, don’t move!” _“Семнадцать!” _ “Soldat!” “_Рассвет!” _“Hold your fire!”_ “Печь!” _“WHERE IS HALFORD!” _“Девять!” _“Requesting immediate backup!” _“Добросердечный!” _“Hold him!”_ “Возвращение на родину” _ “Meisner!” _“Один!” _“Stay back!” “_Товарный вагон!”_

“Ice him. Fuck. Somebody clean this up. Call Halford. And get a doctor in here _now.”_

_(At ease, soldier, _someone said, once.)

**hydra fortress hq (eastern bloc), sokovia**

**dr. halford**

After dragging a chair closer to the cryochamber, Charlotta Halford takes a seat, placing her elbows on her knees with her splayed fingertips touching. Her upper back is aching, and she’s ravenous, but the knot in her intestines is far greater than the grumbly hunger in her belly.

The room is cool, the only heat generated by the whirring machinery keeping the Soldier stable. It’s been a very long day.

After programming and prepping the Hawk, she’d been anxious despite her promises to her father as she watched Manera’s jet take off, bearing her newest asset towards his first field test. Under better circumstances, she’d have overseen his first mission personally. However, thanks to the literal and metaphorical fires Aldrich Killian has been setting and spreading, Charlotta has been forced to retreat into the shadows of the operation.

The problem with attaching multiple identities to her face is the high risk of crossover and it’s a compromise she has, for the most part, made peace with. Anyhow, she only really flits between her two truest selves these days: Charlotta Halford and Charlotte Pierce. She can balance herself, she's been doing it for years.

Hell, if she can get Captain America to like her, she’s got it _made._

For now, unfortunately, having it _made _means sitting in the storage chamber of her headquarters, watching the unchanging face her Soldier, and waiting for Manera to report in.

She doesn’t turn around when a door opens behind her. There are very few people who would dare interrupt her in here, and only one who would bring food. Some sort of stew, judging by the smell. There’s the staccato scraping of a chair behind slowly kicked towards her and sure enough, Lasse Kapanen appears at her side, one ankle hooked around a chair leg, carrying two bowls. Each one has a chunk of bread and a fork sticking out of it.

Charlotta accepts her gracefully, immediately shoving the bread deeper into the meaty mulch to soak up some of the gravy-like puddle. It’s piping hot. She puts the bowl down to burn a circle into her lap, so she can play with the bread. The scent makes her stomach gurgle.

“So,” Kapanen says without preamble, taking his seat and shoving a forkful of carrot into his mouth. “He asked _why.”_

Charlotta can’t help it. She smiles.

Kapanen is watching her face closely, hasn’t even glanced at the Soldier in the tank, but she can hardly bring herself to look away.

“It’s been a while since he’s done that,” she confides.

Kapanen _harrumphs _very loudly, making a real song and dance of eating his stew. Charlotta, taking the hint, scoops some meat and potato onto a fork and nibbles it. It’s bland, but to her anticipatory empty stomach, it’s heavenly.

“Meisner says he’s being kept out too long. He’s developing personality.”

_Meisner should focus his attention on what’s left of his dignity and the shattered remains of his right leg, _Charlotta doesn’t respond with. She’d managed to keep her outright glee off her face when she heard what the Soldier had done before they got him back under control, but alone with Kapanen, it’s harder to school her more inappropriate reactions.

“He’s evolving,” she says, staring at the Soldier’s closed eyes.

“He shouldn’t be.”

Charlotta laughs, startled. That, at least, gets her to turn to her companion.

“We all evolve,” she reminds him. “Even him. The Hawk will, too. It’s our job to make sure they evolve the way we want them to.”

Kapanen sighs heavily through his nose, eyeing the cryotank uneasily.

“And you think the Soldier evolving into a weapon that needs a _reason _is helpful?”

“No,” Charlotta drawls, rolling her eyes and taking a larger bite of stew. She sucks in a cold breath when it scalds the roof of her mouth. “But we’re realigning his loyalties. It will take time to settle. He’s never questioned you, or me. He still listens to Manera and Rumlow. That’s what’s important. Who _cares _whether he recognises Meisner as an authority figure? I certainly don’t.”

Kapanen frowns.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Halford.”

The way he says it – a semitone deeper, quiet like the snicker of the cloak that covers the dagger. As if he is only just realising it. As if he is seeing her for the first time. Is he?

“Yes,” Charlotta retorts. “So it’s a good thing I’m in control of the board.”

“But not all the pieces.”

“No, just the important ones.”

Kapanen chuckles, shaking his head as he eats another mouthful of stew. He looks properly up at the Soldier, taking him in, perhaps seeing in his mind’s eye the wreckage they had walked in on when the emergency alert came through. Asset out of containment. He’s seen more than enough of the Soldier in the past year to understand the erratic nature of what they’re achieving here, but he’d been frightened by the brutality of it, Charlotta could tell.

She wouldn’t have taken him for a softie, but he’s surprised her more than once already.

He’s right, it _is _a concern, that the Solder is asking questions. But he’s missing the point. He’s never questioned the ones that matter. Her Soldier has loyalty bred into his bones, it’s a part of his very being, to be loyal. It’s his basic instinct – he is her Leonine, the shadow that does not stray from the path she sets him on.

_“My commission is not to reason of the deed, but do it,” _she says, articulating each word with particular pleasure. She’s never cared much for Shakespeare, all those years in stuffy boarding schools. Pleated skirts and critical analysis of Turners and _oh _the iambic pentameter, exquisite! But it had been ingrained in her, and that one line remained, years later, the first time she looked upon the Winter Soldier and saw the raw power of his obedience.

Kapanen turns his head, questioningly, and she scrunches up her smile on her face, obscuring it.

“Surely, the point is to have an asset that is loyal strictly to HYDRA?” Kapanen says. The uptick question mark of his voice is telling, unsure.

Charlotta shrugs one shoulder, scraping the bowl with her fork as she cleans up the last of the carrots. She hadn’t realised how quickly she was demolishing it.

“Yes, but that would never work for the Soldier, or the Hawk. They have one very important thing in common.”

She looks to Kapanen, to see if he can guess it. He is perplexed.

“They are snipers.”

_“Yes,” _Charlotta sighs impatiently. “But something else, too. In their original forms, their loyalty to everything – country, government, institution, even their _morals _– was superseded entirely by their loyalty to one person. Or, occasionally, select people.”

She looks at the Soldier. His entirely familiar face.

She remembers looking through a history book when she was a child. Her father’s arm over her shoulder, as she pointed out each Howling Commando in turn, stubby fingers pressing into their faces as she repeated their names one by one. Her mother had chatted over her proudly, and offered to show her _the_ _old movies, _and her father. His twilight smile.

Her father had left the book open for her, on a very particular page.

Charlotta had memorised the Soldier’s features a long time before she ever saw them in person.

Now, as she watches Kapanen watching the Soldier, she sees the cogs turning in his mind. The surprise dawning like cleared skies on his face.

She continues: “If there’s one thing we’ve proven with our work on the Soldier, it’s that you cannot change a person’s innate _nature. _You can only manipulate it. Over the years, HYDRA handlers have appealed to the Soldier’s belief he is acting on the good of humanity. But the Soldier’s original form prioritised loyalty to individuals, not causes. So, I gave him people to be loyal to. One to follow, and one to take care of.”

“That’s how you knew they would attach to each other. They had attached to individuals in their – past lives.”

“Exactly.”

Kapanen takes a bursting lungful of air, putting his empty bowl on the ground and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Charlotta.”

He sounds, if anything, _more _frightened this time he says it. Charlotta knows, at least, that he understands what she’s talking about. That he _understands._

“Yes,” she says again, and turns away to look at her Leonine. His unchanging face. His unwavering loyalty.

** LATEST: ** ** TONY STARK presumed dead following attack on his Miami home – this comes after the self-proclaimed “IRON MAN” Avenger made threats against rising terrorist THE MANDARIN. No statement has yet been released by any of Stark’s fellow Avengers, including CAPTAIN AMERICA. What does PRESIDENT ELLIS have to say?**

_“Tony? It’s me. I can’t get to you. I don’t even know if – I’m on a SHIELD assignment. I can’t tell you where, but I’m out of the country. I saw Pepper was alive. I tried to call her, too, but it went straight to voicemail as well. I hadn’t realised about Happy – I’m sorry. Things have been, weird, I know. But I’m coming back next week. Just leave me a call, or a text, on this number. I’ll try check it when I can. Seriously. Please. I’m worried. I’m so worried. Take care of yourself, Tony.”_

_“Tony, it’s Bruce. Steve just called me. He’s worried. I don’t know where you are or why you’re not asking for help, but you’re an idiot. Get over yourself and call Captain America back. It’s unconstitutional to ignore his calls.”_

**jet**

**hawk**

With the hood on, there is no leak of light to betray his surroundings, no whisper of sound to guess by. The choker is tight around his throat. He must sit fully upright to breathe easily, leaving a deep tug all the way down his spine. His wings are curled protectively around his shoulders, shielding him from the invisible, silent agents that are near him. He knows, because he can feel the vibration of their voices and movements through his skin, his sternum, his wings.

The braces fit better around his chest now than they used to. They expand slightly with his breaths.

Underneath him where he sits, he can feel the unmistakable rumble of an engine. The curved movements are smooth, rarely turbulent. He’s in a jet, not a van. He is on a mission. She explained it to him: her green eyes so close he could count her eyelashes, her voice the last thing he heard before they scraped the hooded collar over his head.

He has rested. He is ready.

There’s a surge in his belly, the swoop dive of a graceful near-landing and a hand taps the crown of his head once. He curves his spine over, revealing the back of his neck, and the collar is unlocked. The person who pulls it off him: Manera. Quick, dark brown eyes. A wide mouth. Generous with his criticism and stingy with his praise.

“You have three hours before I press this button, Hawk,” he says, waving a remote control in his hand.

The kill switch. Halford had used it, once, when he hit the ground too hard. The wings had screamed and arched and dislodged from his spine and he had fallen in a spasm of shock.

The Hawk nods in understanding.

“Take us down, Secor,” Manera says, louder, to the pilot.

Then he lifts the black face mask. It covers the Hawk's mouth, his jaw, his nose, his cheekbones. It fits directly up to his eyes, following the lines of his cheekbones, moulded to the contours of his face. They don’t put glasses on, like they do for the Soldier, though. The Hawk has seen them: thick, bullet proof visors. The Hawk is relieved. He would not like to blinded, too.

The jet lands, opening at the back, and Manera nods, rifle in hand.

“We’ll be your eyes in the sky, to pick up the ones you miss.”

The Hawk does not _miss._

Perhaps Manera can read minds, because he laughs, and slaps the Hawk’s face a little hard.

“Cocky shitbag, this one,” he tells Secor. “Go on.”

The Hawk turns, pulling his first two handguns from their holsters, and stalks out of the jet.

_Enter the compound._

_Engage all hostiles. Terminate all targets._

_Capture Aldrich Killian – do not terminate._

_Bring Killian to rendezvous point for extraction._

_If Killian is not present, report to rendezvous point for extraction alone._

_Do not be seen. Do not be caught._

_Do you understand, Hawk?_

I understand.

Fire. There’s _fire. _Men with burning skin that sizzles like the lava bubbling in a volcano – his wings slice through their limbs like a knife through hot butter – and the heat travels up through the metal plates, searing his skin. Sweat pours from his scalp, his chest, his back.

_“HYDRA – it’s HYDRA!” _someone bellows into a broken comm, and he raises one crackling fist to block the Hawk. Opens himself up for a kick to the chest, and he falls backwards to the floor, a splatter of scorch marks and the Hawk twists, brings one wing around in a smooth arc that slices him in two from shoulder to hip.

The Hawk listens to the pitter patter of footsteps.

Three upstairs, one on a set of metal stairs at the southeast exit.

Downstairs – screaming. A woman.

“Aww, _shit,” _someone cries out as the Hawk swings over the barrier of the staircase. Glides downwards, like the training course in the fortress. Scoops two around the neck on his descent and they squirm and cry and wrestle and writhe and the Hawk snaps their necks – these ones don’t burn back to life like the others.

He lands on top of the corpses, hears the snap of a gun being loaded and raises his own upwards. One left. He aims and he fires – shoots with one hand but the other hand lifts anyway to balance, fist clenched like he’s holding – _what?_

He doesn’t know.

The man topples over the handrail and smashes to the ground with the others.

The Hawk steps over him, follows the sound of scurrying panic.

_Do not be seen._

There is no Killian.

His lackeys are cowardly. They do not die well.

A woman is screaming, and the Hawk leaves a trail of bodies and blood, smells the smoke of a fire that has caught upstairs. He will need to leave before it blocks the exits, but first.

The door is reinforced steel – it takes effort to force through. The Hawk batters inside and smells hurt skin, like cigarettes put out on tender flesh, that unique sting, he remembers it well – _remembers? – _but he engages the two remaining hostiles – _engage all hostiles – terminate all targets – _they are scrappy and waste their bullets on the Hawk’s folded wings and they swear loudly and one of them scrabbles at a wall that turns out to be a _door _and –

The Hawk shoots him, just once, in the back of the head. He slides down to the ground quietly. They always fall quietly, when they’re dead before gravity takes them.

The door he had been scrambling for is ajar, letting in a gust of air and sunlight.

There is only the Hawk, now, and – the woman.

The sound is not screaming anymore, too tired for that. It’s ragged, laborious breaths, turning to smoke inside burning lungs. She’s glowing like lava, like the hostiles upstairs but she is not a hostile. She is _– trapped._

A prisoner.

The Hawk takes a step closer. He has no instructions for what to do with prisoners.

He tightens his grip on his gun. Does he terminate her? She looks like she is crying, but the tears are evaporating from her eyelashes. Her eyes are glazed, unseeing, mouth hanging open to such in large breaths.

_(I’m putting it out of its misery – _someone said, once, and he yelled _No! _and he tugged the creature closer to his chest. What creature? Four limbs with claws out, digging into the meat of his arm; a tail looping over his wrist, he could feel the break in it. A coarse tongue licking over his thumb as it yowled.)

The woman says something. An incomprehensible muttering of vowels and consonants.

The Hawk steps closer.

Underneath the bright orange hurt, she’s pale. Her body is slim, slick with sweat, trembling with exertion. Her hair is red – but – not _red. _The wrong shade. What is the right shade? This is too pale. It’s golden. She’s golden. It should be darker, should be – the Hawk reaches out and undoes a strap on one of her arms.

A sob coughs out of the wrong-red woman and her head rolls forwards, obscuring her face.

He has no instructions for what to do with prisoners.

_Terminate all targets._

There is no Killian. With no Killian he must – _Report to rendezvous point for extraction alone. _So he cannot bring her with him. Does he leave her here?

He can smell the fire, not only from her skin, but from upstairs, coming closer. Spreading. Wildfire. Spitfire. Fire –

“Hng,” the woman grunts and pulls her head up, tries to look at the Hawk but does not look at his face.

His wings. She’s looking at his wings, blinking at them, as her skin glows and her tears evaporate.

_“-ony,” _she whispers, frowning, shaking.

The Hawk feels a kick of surprise in the very centre of his chest. An impulse deeper than any other, he reaches out and undoes he rest of the straps. He knows what they feel like – what it feels like to be strapped down. How unpleasant buckles are on painful limbs.

He has no instructions for what to do with prisoners and when she wobbles forward he catches her and he winces at the hiss of her hot skin rubbing his own, and his arms and wings fold instinctively around her as he pulls her off the backboard, away from the nasty buckles. She goes willingly, stumbling, weakly pushing at him and pulling at him.

The exit blocked by the fallen guard blows further open, and the fresh air drafts in and the woman lets out a flinching sigh and her skin cools rapidly, as if plunged into an ice bath and when she shivers the Hawk tries to pull her but she shouts – _“Wait!”_

With a ragdoll’s effort she grabs his wrist to tug it, pushing at the cage of his wings and when he opens them she drops to the side of one of the guards. Pulls out something – a phone, and a smaller device. Clutches them in her fist and from her knees she blinks up at the Hawk but he is too quick for her. He scoops her up before she can meet his eyes and he feels the deadweight of her exhaustion as he kicks the door the rest of the way open, carries her out into the white bright sunlight.

He has no instructions for what to do with prisoners and he must report to the rendezvous alone. It’s been less than two hours, Manera won’t use the kill switch yet.

The Hawk stands in a wide open ground, shielded by fencing and blocked by – _what?_

Behind him, he can smell the fire.

There is no Killian, and no instructions for prisoners. The woman with the wrong-red hair is a prisoner, not a hostile. He cannot take her with him. He puts her on the ground. Steps far out of her line of vision before she can look up at him.

_Do not be seen. Do not get caught._

The fire cannot touch her here.

There is no Killian, he must report to the rendezvous alone.

The fire takes hold, and grows, and grows. He can hear the faint tremor of a jet in the distance, feel the vibration of the flames in the air. The Hawk turns and runs, ducking for cover, slipping through a gap in the fencing, cutting it clean through with his wings – _“Wait!” _he hears – but he is quick and he is light, he is steel and oxygen. He is water and cloud. He leaves the prisoner on the ground and the dead targets to burn.

He reports to the rendezvous point alone for extraction.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” Manera says with a laugh, one hand on the kill switch and the other reaching up to cuff the back of the Hawk’s head lightly. “You didn’t miss, Hawk.” He tosses the remote and undoes the mask covering his face. It sticks momentarily to his face, tugging at the skin, before detaching with a sucking sound. The Hawk takes a natural extra lungful of air. “That’s better, right?” Manera says, but does not seem to require a response. He shoves the Hawk down to sitting and turns to Secor, who is piloting.

“There was no Killian,” the Hawk tells him, and for a brief moment he wonders if she should mention the prisoner but –

_Do not be seen_

_– _Manera does not ask.

“No, we missed the window, but we know where he is.”

The Hawk nods.

“We are going to him now?” he asks.

Manera raises his eyebrows, as if the Hawk has spoken out of turn.

“Well, aren’t you just the little initiative-taker,” he says dryly. “Secor, we’ve got an _Ideas Hawk, _who’d have thought it?”

Secor laughs exaggeratedly, glancing over his shoulder.

“You know Halford likes them spunky,” he says. “The Asset’s always mouthier when he’s been around her too long.”

“Don’t I know it,” Manera grumbles, slapping the Hawk once for good measure, like the cuff on the back of his head. “No, Hawk. We are not going after Killian. The last thing we need is you running into –”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head darkly.

“Can you sit there quietly, or do you need this?”

He picks up the hood, shaking it playfully.

“I can be quiet,” the Hawk says obediently, earning himself another tap on the head.

“Well praise Jesus,” Manera grunts, dropping the hood back on the bench and returning to the co-pilot’s seat next to Secor. “I swear to fucking God, Jaime. The sooner somebody puts us out of Halford’s misery, the better. I’m fucking sick of being a babysitter. I don’t know why Brock puts up with it.”

The Hawk sits quietly, looking at his hands. The red mark around his wrist, where the wrong-red woman held it tight.

_< < AGENT THIRTEEN < < (fk9) < < S----- C----- < < TO > > (SUPERVISING HANDLER   
_ H---, M----) > > MOLE HILL IN THE GARDEN >> (attached_file_secure) > > FLY IN THE WEB > > REQUEST DELAY 4.5 DAYS FOR RESULT ANALYSIS_

** _APPROVED_ **

** **

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**avengers tower, manhattan**

**iron man**

“Have you called Steve back yet?”

Tony snorts, very loudly, and ignores Bruce’s sigh of disapproval.

“They’re going to revoke your citizenship if you keep this up,” Bruce warns delicately, but Tony’s not in the mood for anybody’s dark humour besides his own. Actually – scratch that one right off the board. He’s sick to death of his own dark humour. He sick to death period.

Tony is an expert at many things. Jack of some trades, Master of many, that’s him. He’s good at expertise. But sometimes – ever so occasionally, a negligible amount of the time – somebody else is better. Like Bruce Banner, for instance. Tony doesn’t mind Bruce being better than him, now and again.

And if ever a now-and-again moment were to arrive, during which Tony will pluck the beating heart of his pride out of his ego long enough to accept help, it will be when Pepper Potts involved. His breath catches in his throat every time he thinks on it. The filthy smirk on Killian’s face, the shrapnel shriek of Tony’s panic, her body stretched out unconscious on the ground, the last of the Extremis still coursing through her –

“Hey,” Bruce says, clicking rudely.

Tony blinks, his attention returning to the good Doctor’s face.

“Rhodey has given me permission to drug you,” Bruce says _again._

“JARVIS would protect me,” Tony replies dismissively. Rhodey doesn’t get a say. Rhodey’s busy fixing the shitstorm that comes from letting POTUS get snagged on his watch. Rhodey is a nosy badger who isn’t allowed to judge Tony’s completely rational, reasonable, reliable response to the love of his goddamned life being kidnapped and tortured and fucked up with a madman’s drugs.

He’s going to find someone for Rhodey to fall in love with, let him lull himself into a false sense of relationship security, then kidnap Rhodey’s dearest darlingheart and let him find her beaten and battered and burning on the ground with her breaths scorched and her eyes haunted, mumbling nonsense words – _Tony – page – angel – burns – _let him wonder if she’ll ever be able to stop flinching at a reaching pair of hands.

Tony closes his stinging eyes and takes a deep breath. Forces down the lump in his throat. His chest feels tight around the arc reactor. He puts his hand over it, feels the hard metal edges seared into his skin. He can hear Bruce saying his name, but he keeps his eyes closed, knows Bruce will stay back.

Bruce is good. Good Brucie-bear. He knows better than to touch someone unexpectedly. He respects the boundaries he maintains for himself. He’s _good._

Tony swallows and clenches his fists and with monumental effort he doesn’t summon his suit.

“I’m fine,” he says through gritted teeth.

“I know,” Bruce replies. “We’re always fine. But come look at this while you’re busy being fine.”

Tony opens his eyes to see Bruce gesturing at the screen he’s working on. He approaches cautiously, uses his embarrassment to force away the instinctive gratitude, when Bruce moves to give him plenty of room.

The screen is busy with molecular compounds. He’s fairly sure he’d recognise Pepper’s DNA strand anywhere at this time – he’s been staring at it long enough for the past twelve hours. The genetic mutations caused by the Extremis are outlined in the right half of the screen but the left half, which Bruce has been steadily picking apart with endless patience, is –

“Clean,” he says with surprise. “You did it?”

“In _theory,” _Bruce says pointedly. “It needs rigorous trialling before it’s going anywhere near Pepper. But in theory, we can stabilise her.”

_“Brucie,” _Tony says, and before he realises it, he’s grasping Bruce’s shoulder and Bruce is letting him and Tony is trying hard to remember when he last touched someone comfortably who wasn’t Pepper, how much he misses human contact even when he hates it, when he can’t stand it, when he’s been afraid of it all his life.

Bruce smiles at him, those reassuring eyes.

“You should go tell her the good news,” he says. “Or you can keep watching me be better at stuff than you.”

Tony doesn’t even have a sarcastic retort to offer. He’s grinning fiercely, ferociously.

“I could kiss you!” he laughs.

“Please don’t,” Bruce replies. “Go kiss Pepper. Please. Go. Now. I’ll get JARVIS to call you with any updates.”

Tony does, in fact, kiss his cheek before leaving, chuckling at Bruce’s exaggerated disgust, relishing the hand that swipes over his arm in a heartening squeeze as he leaves. He makes his way to the elevator, his chest tight and light and full and free and he’s _happy, _he’s about as happy as he’s felt in so long.

Pepper, she’s upstairs. She’s so close, and she’s sleeping, but he’ll be there when she wakes up. He’ll be there.

Just as he reaches the elevator, the doors open, revealing a tall, troubled pillar of muscles and American baby blues.

“You didn’t return my call,” Steve says, sounding closer to relieved than angry despite the put-upon scowl.

Tony can’t help it. He laughs. He bursts out laughing and he grabs Steve by both arms, suppresses the urge to make a disparaging joke – _Jesus _how does he lug those biceps around? – and instead he says: “Welcome home, Cap. It’s good to see you.”

Steve goes instantly from pretend-annoyed to outright-bemused. He smiles uncertainly.

“Um, thank you?” he asks. “It’s good to see you too, Tony. Lovely to know my teammate is still alive.”

“Rumours of my death are often greatly exaggerated,” Tony says, and pats Steve’s cheek.

“That’s not the –” Steve tries to correct, but Tony does not care one bit. He slides neatly past Steve into the elevator, shoving the super soldier out to the lab.

“Go see Bruce,” Tony tells him. “He’s been deeply concerned about you.”

“Tony,” Steve says, that earnestness, God, maybe Tony really has missed it. “Are you OK?”

Tony grins.

“I’m OK,” he promises, and wonders idly how Steve keeps this kind of sunny sincerity up all day every day. It’s exhausting, even when he means it. “JARVIS, to Pepper.”

_“Certainly, sir,” _JARVIS replies as the doors close on Steve’s confused face.

Tony closes his eyes and takes a deep, steadying breath. He’s OK.

More importantly, Pepper will be, too.

**the twenty-fourth time**

**natasha romanoff**

He’s a furnace in her bed.

She’s already shoved his grasping limbs away twice, unpeeled his fingers where they’ve curled around her skin. He breathes quietly in his sleep – he moves, sometimes, but for the most part he’s utterly still. She thinks that’s a habit he learned a long time before SHIELD. She thinks he probably slept still as a child, in the circus canopy, out of reach of others. She thinks he isn’t used to somebody in his bed, and his unconscious hands are seeking reassurance.

When he rolls, minutely, just enough for a hand to lay on her waist, she doesn’t shove him away. She shoves the thin sheets off instead, lets the cool air from the AC wash over her. He shivers in his sleep, and she rolls towards him, tucks along the length of him. Breathes him in, surrounds herself.

Clint dips his face into her hair, his mouth at her forehead, damp and hot. His arms close around her naturally and she hates the confinement but she adores him, she – loves him. Inescapable, more so than the cage of his arms, the furnace in her bed, she loves him.

“I should have known you’d be an inconvenience,” she whispers into the hollow of his throat. She feels the rumble of his breathing against her face.

Clint pulls her tighter towards him, and she fights the urge to crawl free. Wriggles one leg between both of his, locks their knees around each other.

She lies awake, until it is morning. Until Clint wakes up, and his entire body freezes, and he tries to let her go but she follows him, so that in rolling away he brings her up to lie on his front. Her hands are folded over his chest, her chin resting on her suspended knuckles, so he can see her face.

“Sorry,” he says, automatically.

She smiles at him. She _loves _him. She knows this feeling, this newness in her bones. She’s loved before – she hadn’t put thought into loving again.

Natasha leans into his mouth, kisses him, sour breath and soft lips.

He kisses her back, another automatic response.

She'll tell him, one day. Not yet.

**fortress**

**hawk**

There are more guards than usual for this visitor. He’s older than most, walks with the authority that comes from power and age. The entire Fortress is agitated. Halford, Kapanen, the doctor, Manera. Meisner is missing. Everyone is tense. Some are watching the Hawk with an unknown apprehension, full of expectations they won’t voice.

Some are watching the Soldier with similar, colourless eyes.

The Soldier’s eyes are hidden behind a visor – the Hawk doesn’t know what he is watching.

The Hawk’s mask is on, obscuring his features all the way up to his eyes. His wings are attached, unfolded for inspection. He’d allowed two plates to be damaged in his last field test, but nobody had been angry. The Soldier had watched them fix it.

Halford is walking beside the visitor, talking in low, contained enthusiasm. The visitor looks greedy, and excited. His eyes are quick and pale and he is surrounded by bodyguards. When he stands in front of the Hawk, the Hawk catches his eye for the briefest of moments. He is a stranger. The Hawk looks down.

“Good work, Halford,” the man says.

“Thank you, Secretary Pierce,” Halford says with a strange, tittering tone.

The man – Pierce – looks the Hawk up and down, then the Soldier, who is standing to the Hawk’s right.

“Is he flight ready?” Pierce asks, stepping closer to inspect the wings.

Halford moves with him, gestures for the Hawk to turn and he does. Two pairs of hands touch the metal spine that holds the wings in place, manipulate the axillaries one by one. Halford’s smaller, stronger hands pull at the joints demonstratively.

“As ready as he can be, but we can’t get the lift,” she explains, sounding displeased.

The Hawk bows his head. He’s _tried. _He’s _trying._

“I’ve done a spot of digging for you,” Pierce says. “Pulled some old pararescue files. There’s some debris left from some of their casualties. I’ll have the parts and the blue prints shipped to you. They’re significantly – _cruder, _than this elegant design. But you might make more sense of them.”

The Hawk keeps his head bowed, and Halford’s familiar fingertip presses into the top of his spine, where there is something burned into his skin. He felt them do it, but he hasn’t seen it. The Soldier had watched them do it, had held him down for them but his hands on the Hawk’s wrists, it had been almost like a comfort. His thumbs had traced circles in his skin, hard enough to bruise.

Halford explains the mechanism of the wings in brief detail, pulling the wings this way and that, and the Hawk glances sideways, to the Soldier, hidden behind the mask and visor.

Further away, Kapanen is watching them with narrow eyes.

The guards are itchy, impatient. Manera looks restless.

“And you feel you’ve exhausted your efforts with the invader’s weapon?” Pierce asks, when Halford nudges for the Hawk to turn back around. She taps his shoulder and he drops gracefully to his knees – at a look from her, the Soldier follows suit.

“For now, we have everything we need,” she replies.

“Very good. You remember Baron von Strucker, don’t you?” Pierce asks.

“I do,” Halford says, and the Hawk thinks it’s possible Halford does not like the man called Strucker.

Pierce laughs, as if he thinks so, too.

“He’s going to be making use of your spare space here. We’re having some more spoils of war brought over, and he’s going to need access to the spear. I’m sure you’ll work nicely together.”

The Hawk is looking down, and so does not see whatever face Halford pulls that makes Pierce laugh again.

“I look forward to it,” Halford says, and does not hide her sarcasm, and this time Kapanen chips in, saying something in his familiar-unfamiliar language. Halford also laughs this time. “After you, sir. Let’s discuss this upstairs.”

A set of guards lead the way, the bustling to and fro of those needed and those not. The Hawk and the Soldier remain as they are, on their knees on the ground, behind Halford, who looks at them briefly. When she call their names, they look up in unison. Her sharp green eyes are bright with approval.

“You will stay with me,” she tells them.

They stand together and move to her sides. The Soldier on her left, the Hawk on her right. She is pleased with them, the Hawk can tell.

He follows Halford out of the lab, through the busy Fortress.

The Soldier walks beside him.


	5. Interlude: 1945

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest friends,
> 
> This is really quite different, I know. This chapter was _supposed_ to be a separate prequel-type short posted after Leonine was finished. However, Morita was chomping at the bit to be heard, and for anyone who's read some of my Inception stories, you'll know I love an interlude.
> 
> Clint and Natasha will also probably be getting one, later on in the story. If however they behave themselves as they should, it will be a separate story as planned.
> 
> This gets difficult, and I'm sorry. It includes some quite severe descriptions of injury, including a suicide attempt. There is a brushing of period-relevant homophobia, too, however I'm so aggressively headcanon for liberally minded Commandos that it doesn't have much impact at all.
> 
> I also have never read a New Yorker Edition, so I have no idea if what is written is believably something that would be published in it, but do grant this English lass the benefit of the doubt and assume everything is totally A-ok? Please and thank you. You're the best.
> 
> Be happy, healthy, safe and sane, lovely people. Take really good care of yourselves.
> 
> Yours,  
LRCxx

**(Part Five – Then)**

**1945**

_Steve._

_My Steve._

_They put something in me, Steve. Something that doesn’t belong there. Something that isn’t human. I don’t know if it’s machine, or animal, or something worse, but I feel it every day. I hear the world even in my sleep, as if I was always awake even when I’m dreaming._

_I dream about you. At least that hasn’t changed. I dreamt you when you were beside me and I dreamt you when you were a world away and I dream you now, too. I know you dream. I’m afraid to ask what you dream._

_I’m afraid._

_It’s not a strange feeling. It’s familiar, maybe comfortable. It’s a companion, this kind of fearing. I was afraid when the air in our apartment got damp, and your fingers were bloodless, and your temper would wipe you out. You spent so much time fighting yourself, fighting the world, I was sure you’d run out of fight before the end. Sure pneumonia would get you before you could punch your way out of it._

_That’s not the point. You know all that. I told you, over and over. I told you everything._

_I used to._

_Steve, they did something to me. I can’t explain. You look at me sometimes with those same blue eyes but I know mine aren’t. They’re different. I’m different. You look at me like._

_You look at me like I’m somebody else._

_Do you already know? Do you know I’m not all yours anymore? That they took your Bucky and replaced pieces of his soul with something else? They did something, Steve. I can’t explain it. I don’t want to. I want to yank it out. My veins. My bones. I want to scrape them off my insides. I want to crawl inside the hollow parts around you. I want to be the space between you and the world._

_I want to be your Bucky again before I forget how. I want to be exhausted from loving you. I want my lungs to run out of air because I gave it all to you. I want you to say my name like you did that day in the gym when we were fourteen and you were cleaning blood off my face and you looked like you were wearing my bruises for me. I want so many things. I’m starving, Steve._

_I can’t explain it and I don’t want to._

_I want to be yours again. All the parts of me. All the insignificant fractures and splinters that remain, what’s left of Bucky Barnes._

_If I don’t make it back._

_If I don’t._

_When I depart, and all that’s left of me is carrion in the frozen wasteland of this world._

_Steve. Whenever I go, however it happens. You’ll be the last thought in my head and the last word in my mouth._

_Everything. You were my first, and you’ll be my last._

Morita closes the notebook. He clenches it so hard in his guilty fist the weak spine bends.

Voices drift towards the doorway behind him – he hears Dum Dum’s booming voice, his forceful chuckles, and instinctively Morita shoves the notebook into his open med pack, and kicks the bag it came from back under the bed out of sight. He takes a long, steadying breath that cuts his teeth and windpipe and does nothing for his pounding heart.

His hand rests on the flap of his bag. Barnes’ words are burning his palm.

In his stinging periphery, he sees Dum Dum appear in the doorway. Behind him, Falsworth is peeking over his shoulder.

Another day – _any other day – _they’d be a couple of miscreants out to kick up a storm. Dum Dum’s eyes flick about the room, landing everywhere except the bed Morita’s standing too close to. Falsworth, on the other hand, is _only _looking at the bed.

“You jump in his grave so quick?” Dum Dum asks reflexively, only to wince. Falsworth briefly closes his eyes.

Rather than backtrack, Dum Dum gives Morita a sad smile of remorse.

“You know the Sarge,” Morita retorts, a stubborn present tense in his mouth that has pervaded their troop for three days now. “Always keeps extra supplies hidden all over.”

He pats his med pack automatically. It’s not a lie. He’d found what he was looking for, the sewing kit and spare strip bandages, before he found – other things.

“Don’t suppose he had any more of that single malt stashed away for safekeeping?” Falsworth asks roughly, a weak grin on his face.

They share a stuttering, insincere laugh.

“Nope,” Morita replies.

He doesn’t add that he already knew he wouldn’t find any; that he’d seen Steve sneak it out less than an hour after they got back two days ago. He didn’t begrudge the Captain it. He knew none of the boys would, but he keeps it to himself all the same.

He wonders, briefly, if Steve had found the knapsack stuffed under the bed. The book inside. The unsigned letters scribbled in it. Morita doubts it. Steve wouldn’t have left them behind, and everyone knows Steve hasn’t left the command centre since he and Agent Carter reported back into HQ some five hours after Morita watched the good Captain walk out of this very building with his greens and three quarters of single malt in his hand.

Dum Dum coughs into the back of his hand, stepping into the room. Falsworth doesn’t follow; he lingers in the corridor, like a child at the top of the stairs after being sent to bed. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet since Switzerland. Dum Dum, if anything, has gotten louder, as if talking over the silent gap where their missing Sergeant should be will be enough.

Morita can see the shadows under his eyes, the restlessness of his shoulders. He can tease and taunt however much he needs, there’s no forgetting how greatly Timothy Dugan admired his young Sergeant Barnes. How much he loved him.

“We’re going after the big guy,” Dum Dum says, and Morita is hardly surprised.

“When?”

He doesn’t need to clarify the who, there’s only one person that’s occupied their good Captain’s thoughts.

“Tomorrow.”

Morita is, in fact, a little surprised this time.

“Cap’s orders?” he asks to a snort from Falsworth and a _“Who else’s?” _from Dum Dum. “Phillips agreed?”

Dum Dum rumbles and mumbles, with a look that appears to mean: _As if Phillips has a choice. _As if any of them have a choice, really, when it boils down to it.

“You coming?” Dum Dum gestures towards the door, where Falsworth is barely visible now, has already backed further from the room, as if it might contaminate him, or perhaps he might contaminate it. Impenitent man from a sacred altar, who knows his place in the world, or fears it.

Morita hesitates, glancing around the room one last time before nodding. He grips the bag a little tighter as he follows Dum Dum and Falsworth out, and it feels pounds heavier for the thin sheaf of papers in the pocket lining. He wonders, again, if Steve has seen them. If Barnes would want him to. He wonders if the others know – if they knew the way Morita sometimes suspected, if they’d still feel the same grief in light of the words now resting in his cautious care.

Morita feels a wide ache in the back of his throat, thinking it. His fist tightens again around the strap of his bag.

He’ll wait, until they’ve got the big guy. He’ll talk to Steve once it’s done.

He’ll wait.

They met in that place, in the cage, in the dark.

Morita’s first thought was, _How does a kid like that make Sergeant? _He had a child’s face, a boy’s face. Softest gaze in the world as he felt another soldier’s arm for breaks and joked about boxer’s fractures being his only real expertise.

“Barnes, you planning on sleeping?” the asshole in the hat asked, eventually, and the boy-Sergeant looked up with a dirty crumpled brow, quirked a smile that belonged far away from the scum suffering of war and replied: “Told you, Dum Dum. I only sleep in Brooklyn.”

Barnes – _It’s Bucky, _he said, when Morita asked – was cool as a cucumber for the first day. And true to his word, he didn’t sleep a wink. Neither did Morita. They exchanged names in whispers and Morita asked if he was hurt and the kid joked: “Not anywhere worth fixing.”

It had a lot of meanings that Morita never fully reasoned with, yet understood implicitly.

When they grabbed another stash of soldiers for the tests that nobody passed, the asshole with the hat bellowed insults like a wild cat scratching at a trap, and the boy-Sergeant yelled: _“Stand down, Dugan!” _before he was dragged to the ground and hauled the way Morita used to haul sacks of flour back home on a Saturday for his uncle’s shop when he was a teenager.

When the good and golden Captain came, and asked for James Barnes with his own scratching wild cat voice, Morita almost asked, _Who?_

But he saw it, reflected in Captain America’s face. The kind of hurt that ain’t worth fixing.

Decades later, when arthritis is clutching his elbows and his knees, Morita is called upon by a man called Hurley Faro, who asks: “Is there any truth to the rumour that Rogers and Barnes were in an illicit, homosexual relationship?”

Hurley Faro is a journalist, who has never so much as whiffed a Pulitzer to slake his thirst.

Morita takes a slow sip of coffee and thinks about how easily Jacques would stack his cans around this shit stain and blow him all the way to hell’s deepest circle. He thinks about the lockbox in his attic, the notebook inside it he never was able to deliver, because he waited when he should have acted.

He thinks about that boy-Sergeant, younger then than his oldest grandson is now, joking about boxer fractures and being hurt in places not worth fixing.

Hurley Faro doesn’t deserve any piece of that boy, with his greedy eyes and greedier pen.

“I wasn’t aware of any rumours at all,” Morita replies, which is actually true.

Hurley Faro leaves with less than he brought, and Morita swallows down his tears. He calls his granddaughter, Julia, and he tells her how much he loves her. How proud he is of her.

He tells her: “I don’t care what your daddy says, sweetheart. If you love somebody, be goddamn proud of that love. It will always be beautiful. It will always be yours.”

_Steve._

_My Steve._

_I thought we’d be home by now, Steve. I thought I’d be tripping over your pencils and getting mad because you stained the soap that weird yellow again. I thought I’d be bullying you about dancing halls and._

_Are you going to marry her, Steve?_

_I wouldn’t blame you. More than ten years and I’ve never once doubted your love and I still don’t, couldn’t ever, I know you. I know you in every way. I know your voice like the trees know the morning chorus. I know your heart. But the world is a different place, and you might be my Steve but you’re everybody’s Captain and I wouldn’t blame you._

_We had that plan. Remember? Olivia and Jane. The girls from the bar, before the raid. You’d have had to marry Jane, because James and Jane Barnes? Awful. All those plans fading like colour in sunlight. I hope they’re safe. I think about them sometimes. I wonder if they found each other again. If they’ll find another pair of schmucks like us._

_So it’s not as if it wouldn’t be part of the plan, if you married her. I think she knows. It terrified me, but now._

_Was it all a dream, Steve? Was it something we made up? Brooklyn and baseball and my Ma’s stew and your Ma’s spare pillows and the pencils and the stupid oil stains on the soap. It was in my skin for days, Steve. Days._

_Every day it gets further away. I get further away._

_If I die before the end, please marry her, Steve. OK? Don’t follow me, like you did to this forsaken wasteland. You’re stronger than the void. You didn’t need any super serum for that. You always have been._

_Or am I getting ahead of myself?_

_I’m going to bully you about dancing halls again one day, Steve Rogers. I’m going to get so mad about the stains on the soap and our skin._

The first thing Morita notices when he gets to command centre is Jacques Dernier’s tense jaw, his bloodshot eyes.

He’s standing as far back from the chattering officers and agents as he can get without being out of the door and he nods at Morita when he passes, avoiding his gaze. Morita continues towards the map that has gathered a crowd.

A presence close to his shoulder startles him, and Falsworth murmurs an apology before saying, very quietly: “Jacques and Steve had another fight. We opted to come find you to avoid the crossfire.”

While his voice is low enough that the words barely reach Morita’s ears from inches away, across the room Steve, who is standing in full Captain America pose, stiffens, looking up and away without quite managing to hide it. Morita glances sideways to Falsworth, who is grimacing.

Morita, heavy and disheartened, chooses not to broach the subject and instead falls into line beside Gabe Jones, who slaps his arm encouragingly.

It’s painful to see any of their close-knit band at odds with one another. Steve and Jacques have never had a problem with one another before, not in all their months together – more than a year, now. Steve’s picked up French a damn sight faster than everyone except Gabe, who was already a natural. Plenty of times Jacques has muttered something under his breath that only Gabe and Steve have snickered at, while everyone else cluelessly huffed.

In three days, this will be their second huge blowout, and whatever shit they’ve been flinging, Morita’s only caught half of it and Gabe isn’t spilling a word on the rest.

“Stark needs another few hours with the jet,” Phillips is saying, sounding much the same as he always has, to nobody’s surprise.

Phillips is a lifer. He’s stitched into his uniform and he’ll be buried in it too and he’s signed more death notes than he’ll ever admit and he’s maybe going to outlive everyone else in this room because resilience like that just don’t die.

Beside him, Captain Steve Rogers, tragedy carved into his face like marble.

Morita stares, unabashed.

A ghostly possession has overcome Steve, these two days past. Has he slept? Has he eaten? It seems unlikely. They’ve lost the only person who could force that mountain to move. Morita wonders if Carter will succeed where they’ve failed. She’s the one who brought him in after all. Morita isn’t sure if she managed it with a kind word or a punch in the teeth or some vicious mixture of the two, but it sure worked.

Steve’s forging ahead with more purpose than ever, and a part of Morita can’t wait for this to be over but another undeniable part of him worries what will happen to Captain America’s stars and stripes once there’s no bad guy to hunt down.

Will he stay?

Should _they _stay, too, if he does?

Morita glances back, to where Jacques is leaning against a wall, listening intently. Just the once, he lifts a hand to swipe a rogue tear from his eyelashes, his cheeks blotchy and red. When Morita looks around again, he catches Agent Carter’s eye. She gives him the smallest, saddest shrug he’s ever seen.

** _(NEW YORKER: Page 6)_ **

** _16 October, 1970_ **

** _ The World Mourns a Third Howling Commando: This Author’s Account _ **

** _Jack Harper Harte_ **

_It’s been twenty-five years since the end of World War II, but to many it still feels like twenty-five days, never more so than when we are pulled back into the memories of those we lose now, after the fact._

_French authorities confirmed earlier this month the tragic demise of Jacques Dernier at the age of 59 years. Dernier is predominantly known as the only member of the French Resistance to join the team nicknamed the “Howling Commandos” of Captain America between the years 1943 and 1945. A great many tributes are being paid to celebrate and commemorate Dernier’s bravery, both in his homeland and here in the United States. This very editorial catalogued his extraordinary wartime efforts in last week’s edition._

_However, there is another endeavor that this author would like to bring to the attention of his readers; one that comes with a personal vested interest._

_As some of you may know, my own mother is the younger sister of another Howling Commando: the late Sergeant James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. I, of course, never met my famous “Uncle Bucky”, because he was the first Howling Commando to perish, a mere week before the loss of Captain Steve Rogers, which led to the disbanding of the original “Howlies”. You all know this story; however, it is possible you have not heard of the events that followed, beginning in March 1947._

_On March 9th 1947, which was serendipitously the eve of Bucky Barnes’ would-be thirtieth birthday, my mother, Rebecca Harte n_ _é_ _e Barnes, received a letter from Jacques Dernier. The letter detailed his regret for not reaching out sooner and a heartfelt apology for her loss. It also included a request. The request was for her permission to conduct a search of the region of the Alps where Sergeant James Barnes fell to his death, in the hope of retrieving his body. Jacques went on to explain that the arrangements were in hand, that the Swiss government was in full co-operation and that Jacques himself would be footing a substantial portion of the bill using his own family reserves. My mother, who was twenty-six years old at the time and pregnant with my younger sister, was overwhelmed. His sensitivity to include her in the search for her beloved big brother meant a great deal and she gladly gave her blessing._

_The search, though not constant, took place whenever weather and circumstance permitted for the next twenty-six months. A second, lesser documented search for another seven months took place some years later. Jacques, himself a prolific mountaineer, led many of the expeditions in person alongside teams of climbers he gathered for this personal mission. Fellow Commando Montgomery Falsworth even joined him on two occasions (see left)._

_It was, ultimately, to no avail. Whether by avalanche or some other, more unsavory circumstance, Sergeant James Barnes, my Uncle Bucky, was never found._

_To this day, regular searches funded by Stark Industries and spearheaded by CEO Howard Stark take place across the Arctic Coast for the missing Captain Steve Rogers, however Jacques Dernier remains the only person to have conducted a thorough search for my Uncle. I have written on two occasions to Mr Stark, a close friend of not only Rogers but all of the Commandos for a time, however as of this article’s date there has been no response._

_But I digress._

_My gratitude to Jacques Dernier is a constant, burning flame. His compassion for my mother, which was unasked for yet sorely needed, will live far beyond him. He may not have succeeded in the task he set himself, however the very act of his attempts meant the world to this author, and his grieving mother. It is this compassion that I endeavor to keep in mind every day, to remember that each soul lost is a soul grieved for. Alongside the rest of the world I thank Jacques for his service in the war, his bravery in the resistance, the light of his honor at a time when the world was plunged into darkness._

_Most of all, I thank him for never giving up._

Morita gives himself a moment’s reprieve once the briefing is over.

They’re waiting on a go signal. Everyone is packed and stacked and ready to be off, away, gone.

Before – _before – _they might have gathered in a room together to wait it out, nipping Barnes’ secret stash, bickering and teasing and pissing each other off. Problem is, they’re pissing each other off without the bickering and teasing first. So, Morita gives himself a reprieve.

He doesn’t follow Gabe and Falsworth and Dum Dum when they depart, grumbling about a slice of bread and a bar of sweet – _“Save your Ks, you darn waster!” _Dum Dum loves shouting as he snaps his gum inside his mouth – and he definitely doesn’t follow the slope of Steve’s shoulders when he follows Jacques out of the room.

Quickly, Morita finds himself at an abandoned desk, where he perches on the edge and holds his med bag in his lap.

Does he always clutch it so tight?

He loosens his hold, and tries to forget about the burden inside.

He reaches into his safest pocket, pulls out the tender clenched photo he keeps there. Stares at it, and tries not to wonder if they’d be this fractured all over if _he’d _been the one to make it to Hades. Or Gabe, or Falsworth, or any of them.

Is it a privilege reserved for pretty boy-Sergeants?

Morita shoves the bitter, turbulent thoughts away with surly vehemence. No, he won’t think it. Resentment is the ugliest shade of cruelty and Bucky Barnes earned a lot of things in his twenty-seven short years but Jim Morita’s antipathy wasn’t one of them.

“Knock knock,” a warm voice intrudes, accompanied by a rap-rap of knuckles on metal.

Morita looks up to see Agent Carter’s crimson smile. She’s standing next to an empty filing cabinet with a question mark puzzling her brow. In response, Morita sidles over on the desk to make room for her to perch, too, which she does without losing her smile.

Her eyes dart down to the photo between Morita’s fingers and, when he offers it to her, she takes it with reverence to look closer.

“Your family?” she asks without looking away from them.

“Anna, my wife,” Jim says, his eyes on her secret grin half-hidden by her hair. “And my son, Joseph.”

“They’re beautiful,” Agent Carter says, and though it’s an easy response, a natural one, a phrase that is meaningless with overuse, it’s still true and it’s still spoken sincerely and yes, _yes, _they are beautiful, both of them. The fact of them is beautiful.

Joseph was scarcely two years old when this photograph was taken, using Morita’s brother’s Kodak Box. He’ll be turning seven soon. Morita hasn’t seen them in over two years. Perhaps it is another natural thing to say, or perhaps Agent Carter hears some melody of his thoughts in his sigh, because she hands back the photo, then, and says:

“You’ll see them again, soon.”

“I hope Joe still remembers me,” Morita says and it’s supposed to sound like a joke but it comes out much feebler than intended. It wobbles out of him, drunkenly melancholy.

Agent Carter brightens her smile considerably for him.

“You’re a little hard to forget, you know,” she says lightly. “He’ll be so happy to have his father back.”

Morita tucks the photo safely away, clasping his hands back over his bag.

“Was there something you needed, Agent Carter?” he asks, because her company is pleasant, and she’s a familiar face amongst the Commandos, however she’s never sought Morita out before. Agent Carter shakes her head, her curls bouncing lightly.

“I just thought I would check, see how you’re doing.”

Maybe it really is just the most informal inspection of all time, but he doubts it. Agent Carter’s eyes are troubled yet there’s that same resilience in her that has kept Colonel Phillips’ voice steady for thirty years or more. Not for the first time, Morita marvels at her, the distracting brightness of her lipstick that she wears like warpaint, dazzling any who stand in her way.

Morita has no idea what she’ll do in the future, whether he’ll ever hear about it or not. Either way, he knows with unfamiliar certainty she will outbest everybody in this place. She’ll work harder, burn brighter and faster and longer than all these clowns put together. He figures that’s not something she needs to hear from the likes of him, though, so he suppresses the urge to tell her.

Instead he says: “I’m good and ready, Agent Carter.”

She nods, standing back upright and dusting herself absently as she eyes Morita with an intrusive scrutiny.

“Your family is very lucky to have you, Private Morita,” she says, cutthroat sweet. “So are we.”

With nothing more than a reciprocating salute, she leaves Morita to his thoughts. He sits in astonished silence, for over fifteen minutes, and never figures out what she’d come for.

_Steve. Steve. What the fuck did you do to yourself? I could scream, looking at you, Steve. I could fucking scream._

When he gets home, Joe is so big, so smart, so loving. Anna kisses him, her tears wet on his cheeks, mingling with his own.

Less than a year later, when he strokes Anna’s hair off her brow and kisses her nose. She says: “He looks like a James, like his Daddy.”

Morita nods, agreeing, staring down heartsick and heartful at the sight of his newborn son in his darling’s arms.

James Morita Junior, for his father, and for all the other Jameses that didn’t make it home.

This is how it happens.

Bucky falls from a speeding train, all the way down to the ravine below.

The air slices him, batters at his ears and hands and legs. He is bruised by gravity’s hands. Instinct clenches his fingers but there is nothing to grasp, only the flurry of snow torn from the mountains that will not catch him. His heart thunders inside him, as if it could beat a lifetime’s worth of tremors in his final, freezing moments.

Above him, the shrieking train vanishes, as if disappeared by the clouds. Steals his salvation from him, tears him far out of reach. Holds for safekeeping in his final glance: Steve Rogers’ tear-stricken face. Grasps for him, a fistful of snow displaced from the cliff face, and the rest is blinding.

He survives.

God love him and his sins yet to be repaid. He survives.

**(03-02-1945)**

**R HARTE**

**SYRACUSE, NY**

**38 COLLIER ROAD**

**SORRY ALWAYS LOVE STEVE**

**(05-02-1945)**

**COL. P-------**

**LONDON, GB**

**43 H-----** **D----**

**CAPTAIN DOWN CARTER AND STARK NORTHBOUND **

They’re in a cold room made hot by the bonfire. The last of the snow flurry is melting on their heads and their hands, pink fingers sticky, greedy. The room is smoky and damp. In the centre, a perverse effigy to a saviour undone stands tall, licked by the flames they have set at its feet.

On the furthest side of the room, a man hangs from a rope tied to the ceiling.

James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky, the Sergeant, the American. He hangs from the ceiling, the rope around his chest pulled taut against his straining lungs. They put it around his neck first, his toes just scraping the floor, but they soon realised their trophy had enough strength in his meat to force a hanging, and so they denied him one.

Now he is suspended, a marionette strung by one last thread.

Some of the bones have healed from his fall. Some of them have healed wrong; he can feel them, angular, distorted. They’re going to rebreak them, to make him new again, eventually. He maybe doesn’t have any anklebones left, and one of his hips is dislocated, cracked and cloven. There’s a split in his skull, somewhere. His shinbones are splinters.

And his heart. His heart is finally as broken as his body. His spirit is waning.

They pour water on his head, and sour alcohol, and their laughter is louder than his screams. His exhausted sobs jerk and swing his three remaining limbs. His left arm is somewhere out there, in the drift, where he landed. His right wrist has been tied to his raised left ankle; he’s lost all feeling in his hand and foot.

Perhaps they’re going to cut those off, too.

The torn stumps of his left arm that had not been ripped away entirely by his fall have been tossed to char in their bonfire, at the feet of their crudely fashioned scarecrow of Captain America, dressed in rags of blue and white and red from a stolen French flag.

They’ve stuck a photo onto it for a face, ripped out from one of the newspapers dated _days _ago.

Steve Rogers’ burnt edges stare back at Bucky, the swinging marionette, and Bucky howls his name, a hoarse rasp in his lungs, and he knows, indisputably, that Steve isn’t going to find him. Because Steve is dead.

Dead, the way Bucky should be.

The only one who might not have given up, lost forever.

He doesn’t know how.

They showed him one of the papers. They shoved it in his face, all the way into his mouth until he was stuffed full, and his tongue was black with the print of his Captain’s downfall. In their jostling hands, amidst their jeering, he could discern little more from their flaglike waving than the words _Capitaine _and _Am__é__rique _and _MORT!_

Then they hacked at more of his left shoulder, until he couldn’t remember why he’d started screaming in the first place.

The rope bruises a line across his breastbone, until it is cracking. When he parts his chap-licked bleeding lips, they splash stinging vodka in his mouth that he spits out. The next time, it’s piss. There’s laughter living in his ears, bursting the drums and he’s bleeding their jubilation in heaving fits of terror. Their hands are too many and their faces are blurred by his tears. He tries to escape them, leans away from one only to come into contact with another. He can smell them, the blood in their teeth like wolves.

And Steve, Steve’s face, staring back at him. Plastered onto that scarecrow crucifix like a martyr, fucking _bastard._

Steve watches on from the middle of the lit pyre, with flat grey eyes that should be brilliant blue. But it isn’t Steve, could never be Steve, because Steve would not stare unflinching at Bucky’s suffering, he would not watch indifferent to Bucky’s pain.

They sing his anthem in coarse words that Bucky doesn’t need to understand to know are vastly different from the original lyrics.

Bucky’s vision tears in half, and the breath in his lungs turns against him, grows spores of rage and terror that choke him where he hangs. His head lolls back, his vulnerable throat exposed, wretched with grief and with the very last inches of his momentum, he shoves hard into the ground with his one heel drifting to the floor, kicks back and up, and lets his full weight drop down heavy into the unyielding rope.

He feels his ribs snap inside his chest and he feels the splinters pierce his lungs and there’s one more agonising, bubbling moment to think, _Sorry, Stevie, _as he chokes on the blood trapped in his throat, before death digs her claws into his soul.

When he wakes up, they’ve strapped him to a table, and the laughing soldiers have been replaced with snarling doctors, and they have cut him open to piece him back together from the inside out. He can feel their fingers inside his chest, but he cannot break free of the bonds.

One of the doctors puts his hand on Bucky’s restrained throat, and smiles when he sees Bucky’s blinking eyes.

“You are not yours to die, Soldier,” he says in rigid, clipped-accent English, and Bucky feels the first rotting piece of himself succumb.


	6. 2014 Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely readers,
> 
> I'm sorry this took so long! It just...I kept trying to wrap it up but it _kept going._ I hope some of you are still around! I'm thrilled you liked the little foray into the past last chapter. We're back on with the plot now!
> 
> Please note, there are two conversations here that definitely would realistically not happen in English, and I know that, however I'm putting in a formal request for the poetic licence to pretend they would. You might not even notice. That would be splendid.
> 
> As usual, any noticed language anomalies, do feel free to holler!
> 
> Yours ever so,  
LRCxx

**(Part Six – Trust)**

**2014**

** STRATEGIC HOMELAND INTERVENTION, ENFORCEMENT AND LOGISTICS DIVISION (S.H.I.E.L.D.) **

** 2014/--/-- ** **PROJECT INSIGHT** – REASSIGNED SUPERVISORY LEAD – MECHANICAL ENGINEERING AND I-----------, R------------, E------------: **HEPHAISTOS** (DR P-----, C--------)

ASSET REDISTRIUTION FROM L----- TO W--------- EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY – PERSONAL OVERSIGHT FROM S------ TO W--------- SCHEDULED **2014/--/-- **_pr3stymphalianv2redressal_

**budapest, hungary**

**black widow**

It’s always going to hurt to be here, is the first thing Natasha realizes after setting down her gun and pulling out the thermos of coffee she’d lifted from Sitwell on the jet. It’s a different safehouse, of course. A completely different quarter of the city entirely.

Nonetheless, it is unmistakably Budapest, and Natasha is unmistakably antsy about it.

At her long stall in the middle of the one room studio, Steve raises his eyebrows as he sets his not-at-all suspiciously round bag down on the bed nearest the door. Natasha smiles sweetly back at him, silently making plans to catch a cockroach or two as a thank-you gift. Clint tried to sleep nearest the door, the first time they stayed in a twin room, too. She’d done a lot worse than leave a cockroach in his bed, but then again, she’d still been an agent of the Red Room at the time.

She’s tamed her habits a little, since those days.

“Want some?” she asks, holding the thieved thermos out.

Steve accepts, soon grimacing at the first sniff and shoving it back into her hand as he shakes his head like he’s smelled arsenic in the cream.

“What is it with twenty-first century coffee and all these flavoured sweeteners?”

Natasha shrugs one-shouldered and decides against mentioning that four of her own safehouses are stocked with almond syrups. There’s no need to invite that kind of ignorant judgement so early in the morning, especially on day one of a six day op.

Steve’s a lot less of an _old guy _than he gets credit for, but he can make short work of judging anything he deems too frivolous at the most inopportune moments. Then again, maybe it’s not an old-guy thing. Maybe it’s a pauper’s snobbery. Clint’s much the same about too many frills and fancies, a hangover from days where eating more than one meal was downright luxurious.

Natasha, on the other hand, has been all too happy to embrace twenty-first century America’s culture of indulgence, at least for the finer things in life. Every squirt of almond syrup in her coffee or premium cut of steak is a victory over the deprivation she knows she’ll carry with her other basest instincts until the day she dies.

She takes another scalding gulp, while Steve pulls the shield out of the baggage he lugged four blocks and somehow made look casual and not at all like a famous, priceless weapon and symbol.

“Never made it to Hungary, during the war,” Steve observes idly, raiding the decently stocked fridge and pouring a glass of juice. Natasha drops lightly down to her bed – furthest from the door, closest to the fridge, there are upsides to men’s idiocy after all – and drinks her coffee, making a sarcastic noise of interest.

“A real swell town,” she drawls in her most over-rehearsed Brooklyn drawl that always pulls a wince and a chuckle out of Steve. He doesn’t disappoint. “Good bars and churches,” she informs him dutifully. “Every restaurant serves goulash.”

Steve grins sunnily at her, all Captain American approval.

“I happen to love goulash. Filling, nutritious, reliable.”

“You’re Irish, Steve. You love anything with potatoes in it.”

“Yeah, well, you’re Russian, and you love…”

Natasha raises a delicate, daring eyebrow as Steve tails ff to nothing, red in the cheeks and possibly still tasting the vodka martini Natasha had splashed into his mouth last month when he bought it for her. He laughs at her, draining his cup of juice and rinsing it in the sink.

When Steve turns back, he takes in the room at large before pulling off his jacket and tossing it onto his bed, changing into more appropriately dark tac gear.

The day is quickly sinking into night, and they have a little over an hour to report to their rendezvous or Alvarez will start getting twitchy. It’s a far cry from the days of STRIKE Team DELTA, but it could be worse. Alvarez’ greatest fault is overpreparing. Things really could be much worse.

Taking Steve’s cue, Natasha punches in the key code to the safe below the corner cabinets and extracts the guns from their lockboxes.

“I heard Eloise from the thirtieth asked you out,” she says with an air of utter innocence that will no doubt exasperate Steve more than any lechery she could throw into the accusation.

True to form, Steve huffs loudly.

“It was probably on a dare, but I let her down gently anyway.”

Steve probably doesn’t know how to let someone down any way _other _than gently. He’s a polite son of a bitch, when he puts a little effort it.

“Smart move,” Natasha replies as she loads the guns and watches the bulky lines of Steve’s bare shoulders wrestle into the under-armour. “She’s got a weird thing going on with her last ex. You don’t want to get mixed up in it.” She pauses, momentarily watching Steve’s back as she considers the available options, before: “Olivia from her floor, on the other hand, is very single and probably won’t get too invested, if you need an outlet. Wear one of the suits from Tony’s press designs when you ask her, just to be safe.”

“Absolutely not,” Steve scoffs, glancing over his shoulder with shaded amusement in his eyes.

“To the girl, or the suit?” Natasha asks.

It’s been something of a delight, maybe even a hobby, goading Steve into dipping his toes in the dating pool. It turns out, she’s a lot more interested in Steve’s dick when she’s no longer making personal use of it.

“You’re right,” she continues when he doesn’t respond. “Olivia’s too much too fast for you. Breony down in weapons on fourteenth will probably get to you first in any case. She’s been looking for a nice boy, and they don’t get nicer than the Honourable Captain.”

Steve, who is tucking the belt of the harness for his shield into his suit, makes an affronted sound.

_“Nice boy?” _he demands, like he’s never been called worse in all his life.

Natasha drops her pants and steps into her own suit, slowly enough to twitch her eyebrows as she bends over and says: “I heard he doesn’t even spank you without prior written consent.”

Steve’s face does that wonderful, irritated scowl, his ears tinged as pink as his own spanked ass.

“I want a new partner,” he announces with a disingenuous laugh.

“I could ask Maria Hill for you?” Natasha offers. Then, just in case it’s unclear which conversation she’s replying to: “Fifty bucks she’s a dominatrix after hours. She’s definitely flying solo. Divorced, you know.”

Either Natasha’s been wearing him down better than she realised, or Steve still thinks the safehouse has ears that will get back to the indomitable Deputy Director Hill. He asks coolly: “How exactly is it you know so much about so many people’s love lives?”

Natasha is almost, _almost, _offended.

“I’m a professional interrogator,” she reminds him primly, zipping up.

“Of fellow SHIELD operatives?” Steve asks as he tucks a comm into his ear, pointedly not yet turned on.

Natasha clips another knife to the sheath of her calf, amending: “I have a natural charm than makes people want to open up to me.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No,” Natasha admits breezily. “But I am intimidating.”

She holsters her handguns in four neat _clips _as she says it, and for one merciless moment she allows herself to think how that would have earned a laugh from Clint, followed by something like _You cried when the stray cat behind our apartment had kittens._

Steve doesn’t say any of that, though.

He nods, in a shrug, looking her up and down in agreement.

“That you are. And you scared their dating histories out of them one by one?”

It’s with only a bite of that latent surprise at her own indulgent thoughts that Natasha reacts, quipping back, “I got yours, didn’t I?”

Instead of the defensive twitching she expects, Steve merely chuckles, unpacking his shield and snapping it into place.

“Did they ever manage to get answers out of you in exchange?”

He knows they didn’t, and it’s a feeble parry, so Natasha quotes back at him in her best, most slippery Anthony Hopkins voice: _“A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice chianti.”_

She even adds the snickering lip suck at the end, which she knows damn well would have made Clint laugh. However, perhaps even more entertainingly, Steve just looks dumbfounded and more than a little disturbed. It would seem he hasn’t reached 1991 yet in his catch up on world cinema.

“That’s not funny,” he says in his most disapproving Captain America voice.

Natasha steps forward, one hand holding her hair up in a ponytail while the other pats his chest twice in firm condescension.

“Oh, Rogers,” she sighs. “Life is going to get a lot more boring once you’re all caught up on your pop culture.”

Stepping away as she ties her hair up with a band, she grins widely when Steve adds, to her turned back: “That’s not funny either!”

“Ready?” Steve asks from the pitch black, empty apartment where they’re flanking the window. The target entered the building two minutes ago. He’s making his way onto the third floor, which means they’ll need to get moving.

“Locked and loaded,” Natasha responds, gripping her handgun by her hip at the ready.

“Ladies first,” Steve teases, brow raised as he gestures to the open doorway like a gentleman.

“Oh, no sir. Not when there’s a genuine national icon in the room,” Natasha says with exaggerated reverence, curtseying deeply before ushering Steve out to the stairwell.

He moves at not quite a jog, outright giggling as he goes.

“You know, Nat, you can just say you wanna stare at my ass on the way out.”

Natasha doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a laugh, however it’s a very near miss. She glances down at said perky ass, smirking. It’s a difficult thing, not pinching a cheek in retort.

“That would be _most _improper, Captain. Besides, the SHIELD uniforms don’t sculpt you nearly as trimly as the ones Tony makes for you.”

At that, impatient to get on with things, Natasha swings over the bannister and drops lightly onto the next set of stairs.

Steve, never one to be outdone, vaults over the rail and jumps down two flights, because he’s not actually a national icon, he’s a shitbag.

“Yours certainly do,” he comments idly on his way down.

“Well, mine are custom,” Natasha replies, launching up, across and down two and a half sets of stairs.

“You’ll have to hook me up with your dealer.”

There’s a dark blur to Natasha’s left as Steve drops down four sets of stairs, landing a little heavier but not so much as stumbling.

“I’ll put in a good word for you,” Natasha grumbles, debating trying for five but deciding Alvarez has taken enough punishment being assigned to them for a whole week. She scowls, defeated. Steve looks up at her, grinning bright, a real Brooklyn boy, as she jogs down to him.

“Black Widow vouching for the virtue of Captain America,” Steve says, followed by a lengthy wolf whistle. “That’s the opening of at least three jokes. Or maybe the punchline.”

As she reaches his back, Natasha shoves him into a light jog. They’re at the seventh floor, and she pulls out a second handgun in preparation.

“Wow, he’s a comedian, too!” she cries in a half-whisper. “All that USO touring did you all sorts of favours, Cap.”

Steve pulls out his shield, sliding his arm into the grip bracket as he mutters, “I want a new partner,” again. They approach the corridor door that leads to the third floor slowly, facing opposite angles.

“Sure you do,” Natasha agrees lightly, her shoulder close to Steve’s spine. “Along with a new shield.”

Pausing to listen through the door for disturbances, Steve replies: “Nah, I’ll keep the shield. It goes with my uniform.”

He grins at her, cheeks flushed and eyes brilliant blue in the darkness. She smiles back, not even attempting to ignore the surge of affection that swoops in her gut for him.

Then Captain America kicks down the door, his shield raised high, with Black Widow at his six.

**santiago, chile**

**agent bobbi morse**

_“Mockingbird, target on the approach. T-minus four minutes.”_

“Copy that, Bluejay,” Bobbi replies, re-firming her grip on her scope as she watches the gates from her position on the roof of a nearby building.

It’s a sparse building, with architecture spanning two decades or more. In the five and a half hours she’s been waiting in position, she’s seen fewer than ten people pass her line of sight behind the wrought, barbed-wire gates. But the intel had come from a reliable source, and it’s pleasant enough sitting in the Chilean night, with only stone and stars for company, along with the occasional murmurs of her team in her ear.

Bobbi scans the gates again, seeing no unusual shadows in the floodlights surrounding the buildings. The road that leads to the entry gate is deserted, not even a token guard to be seen.

T-minus three minutes.

Bobbi strains for the sound of an approaching car. This far out of the city centre, where the warehouse allotments stretch for miles, sounds ringing clear as bells.

Nothing yet.

_“Bluejay to Eagle, I have eyes on the prize. Target plus one driver. No backup,” _Beale says, and Bobbi scans the road, but she still can’t see anything.

Farrow acknowledges, asking Bobbi in turn to confirm.

“Negative, Eagle.”

_“Hold your position,” _Farrow says anyway.

Bobbi returns her scope to the gate. The few unbarred windows are hollow dark eyes in the blank stone faces of the facility. It’s all but abandoned.

She feels her spine prickle, and, suddenly, Bobbi knows, knows with every atom of her being that someone is watching her.

Bobbi takes a steadying breath. Her weapon is full of non-lethal darts, but the sedative inside is strong enough to take down a man of two-fifty pounds or more. She keeps her breaths long and steady, eyes tracking the road and facility entry. The lights are yellow, strong, but down-facing. The rooftops are barely visible. Bobbi, is barely visible.

T-minus two minutes.

Straight ahead, on a building thirty metres from the entry gate, something moves. A shadow in the starlight.

Bobbi fixes her scope’s aim.

“Mockingbird to Eagle, I have movement on the northeast rooftop,” she says.

There’s a pause.

No response.

Bobbi keeps her eyes on the roof, but there’s no visible sign of further disturbance. No appearing guard. She says, more firmly: “Eagle, this is Mockingbird, do you copy? I have movement on the northeast roof.”

Another pause. Another dreadful silence.

T-minus ninety seconds.

Then: _“Mockingbird, this is Nest. We have lost contact with Bluejay and Eagle. Dispatching Peregrine to their location now.”_

Bobbi wets her lips; her tongue is scratchy in her mouth. She still can’t hear the approaching vehicle.

“Copy that. Permission to move closer? I want to check out movement on the northeast building.”

_“Negative, Mockingbird. Until we know why Eagle and Bluejay have dropped contact you will stay in position.”_

“Acknowledged, holding position.”

Bobbi tries to make out any shapes in the shadows on the roof, but there’s nothing. Her scalp is tingling, gooseflesh on her arms. She knows she saw something.

T-minus sixty seconds.

Her breaths feel too loud in her ears, too big for her lungs. She’s coiled to spring. Bobbi suppresses the urge to make contact again. The Nest will update her. She’s perfectly poised to strike. She has six sedative darts and a magazine of bullets in a glock strapped to her thigh.

The northeast rooftop is still. The dark surface of a lake.

Then. _Then._

A zooming scream of tyres and an exhaust erupts from the darkness of the road behind.

Bobbi cranes her neck, tracking the sound. If the car stops at the gate, she’s in perfect position to take out the driver first, but if they don’t slow down, by the sounds of it she’ll have barely three seconds to make the shot. There’s the gleam of headlights in the corner of her eye. The target is coming.

A voice crackles in her ear, Lucia, _Peregrine,_ a bellow far off through echoing caves: _“Abort mission. Agents down. Mockingbird, this is Peregrine. Abort. Vacate your position. Abort!”_

Bobbi freezes.

The car is right there, blue, one driver and one passenger as promised. She can make the shot, but Lucia’s voice in her ear yells _Abort!_

Bobbi raises her firearm, instinct in her bones. The car is speeding towards the gate as if to smash right through it.

Three seconds. Two.

_“Abort!”_

It comes from the clouds. From the fine mist of the stars. From out of nowhere. A huge, iron bullet blur, cocooned in metal. The shape plummets like a diver into the roof of the car, so fast and heavy the roof caves in and the car swerves full speed.

Bobbi shoots, and there’s the distinct slash-ping of a dart hitting titanium. She gasps, Lucia is still yelling at her as the northeast rooftop tremors with movement again. Someone is there.

The car hits the gate on the driver’s side with a clatter of beaten metal and a man-shaped figure on the cartop rolls off it. Bobbi lunges for the rooftop edge, not behind her for the exit stairwell but forwards, to swing down towards the commotion. She’s already been made, but she’s fast, she’s alone.

She takes aim, a faint _pop –_

The bullet goes straight through her throat.

Her gun drops, and so does she, directly over the ledge she’s balanced on. There is only the rush of the wind as she falls, the wet, white heat of pain as blood sprays out of her neck. Bobbi smashes into the ground on her back, staring up at the stars through the yellow light cast over her body. Pain radiates through her head and chest and back, but her legs are numb, maybe gone.

There’s screaming, a woman’s voice and when her head falls to the side, she sees the target being dragged out of the car. The world is blurry with tears as she blinks fuzzily. Her trembling fingers twitch for her weapon. She sees metal, and skin. Something huge and bright catching glints in the floodlights.

The entry gate is blasted open and a man is standing, his shadow cast over her sucking, bloody heaves as she chokes on her last breath. He reaches for her face, and a sound wrestles out of her as a metal hand plucks the comm out of her ear, then scrabbles at her blood-soaked vest for the body cam. She tries to see his face, but it’s entirely covered by a mask.

Darkness claims the edges of her vision.

The target is silent, and then, so is Bobbi Morse.

**fortress, sokovia**

**wanda maximoff**

The warmth from Pietro’s hand on her shoulder is still bleeding through her shirt as Wanda follows the man in the black gear down the long, poorly lit corridor. Her brother had squeezed her tightly, kissing her temple roughly as he stared down the guard who arrived to collect her after her check-up. It’s the only time of day they see each other, sitting side by side on a gurney as their temperatures are taken; their pulse and their blood pressure, their pupillary responses, their reflexes. She’s never felt so thoroughly cared for, even if it is done with a clinical kind of rapidity.

Wanda strains to hear through the walls as she walks. Sometimes she’s sure she can hear things in the walls, but it’s infrequent, little more than background noise. She hasn’t mentioned it to the doctors, yet. She’s not sure what will happen to her if she tells them, if perhaps she’ll be moved to another facility, like the woman from the room adjacent to hers. Perhaps she won’t be allowed to see Pietro anymore.

Sometimes, when their bare shoulders brush each other as they sit beside one another, answering questions about the letters on the board across the room, Wanda can feel a humming warmth from Pietro, vibrations as quiet as hummingbird heartbeats. She’s always been sensitive to him, to his moods and his manners. She’s always understood him best, better even than herself. He is half of her, of course. Her twin.

She’s not ready to lose their closeness. She’s not ready for things to change.

The man in front of her turns his head, as if checking she’s still there. His eyes are dark, full of impatience. Wanda quickens her step dutifully, keeping her face relaxed. She doesn’t enjoy taunting the doctors and scientists and agents half as much as Pietro seems to. He’s always earning himself hooks to the back of his head, and stern frowns of disapproval. He only ever laughs in response, the exact same sound he would make when their grandfather barked angrily at him through a cloud of pipe smoke for running around in the cramped apartment.

It’s possible Pietro does it for her. It lightens her heart, hearing his open throated, chirruping laughter. It makes her feel her age again, and not the decades of weary survival this past three years have been.

The man ahead takes a sharp left, which leads down to a series of laboratories. She’s getting to know this quarter of the fortress well. She still hasn’t seen the uppermost levels.

The doors are always kept shut, here, though they are never locked. She hasn’t been able to see cameras, but she assumes they must exist.

The man goes to a door marked _C, _and as he reaches for the door handle Wanda is filled with a sudden urge to stop him. _Not there! Not that one!_

The man pushes the door open, gets three steps in before pulling up short.

Wanda is close enough that she finds herself immediately in the doorway, looking into a brightly lit room that looks like the mechanical shop where she and her brother sold their parents’ car, for grocery money. There are glaring bulbs, wide machines, a littered floor of bits and pieces – and three men.

At least, she thinks they are men.

“Kapanen,” the man Wanda had been following says, sounding surprised.

The man who turns at the name – tall, freckly, wearing a long white lab coat – looks putout to be interrupted.

“Busy,” the man Kapanen says in faintly accented English.

“I thought –” Wanda’s guide says, but he’s interrupted by Kapanen again.

“You thought wrong. Try F.”

Wanda scans the room, wondering at the instinctive dread she had felt from behind the door as she takes in the sight before her.

Kapanen is holding a bloody screw tightly in the fingers of his left hand, trickles of crimson dripping down his palm. It’s not his blood. In front of him, a man-machine is sitting on a low suspended metal table. His shoulders are broad and chafed, he’s naked but for a small towel laid over his crotch and upper legs, and a thick black hood covering his entire head. It’s locked around his throat with an angry looking metal choker.

From the side, Wanda can see a dense metal spine has been laid into his back, complete with braces over his ribs. Protruding from the right side of it, there is a huge metal wingspan, half folded. It’s a dull shade of bronze in the light from the bulbs directed at it. The left side of the spine is nothing but a series of open hinges.

Propped up against the table, near the man’s bare shins, there is a second wing. The largest metal shard, feather-shaped at the wing’s tip, has bent at the joint.

The man has not reacted, as if he cannot hear a thing. He sits obediently, waiting for Kapanen to put the screw back in his body, or perhaps take another one out.

And, behind both men, there is the third man. This one is standing perfectly still. He has a mask covering half of his face, grooving into his skin below his icy blue eyes, which are fixed on Wanda. His dark hair hangs in thick strands around the frame of his face. His left arm is gleaming silver.

When Wanda meets his eyes, she can smell freshly laid snow, pure and untouched as a mountain. She can taste smog, the dirty metal of train tracks, whiskey burning in the back of her throat. She shivers.

“Get out, Forster!” Kapanen roars, when the intruding man, _Forster, _starts asking something about _her project._

Wanda doesn’t know who _her _is, or what the project is, but Forster backs out quickly at Kapanen’s order.

The man with the wing still doesn’t flinch. The man with the metal arm doesn’t break eye contact with Wanda until the door has shut between them.

Wanda looks at Forster, who is scowling and blushing.

“You didn’t see anything,” Forster says, and he speaks in English, very quickly. She struggles a little to keep up as he continues, “You’re all sworn to secrecy. Remember? Fuck. He shouldn’t be down here. You shouldn’t have seen that. Oh, who _cares. _You don’t have anyone to tell. You don’t even understand me, do you?”

Forster laughs breezily, a nasty laugh, nothing at all like Pietro’s charming chirp, and Wanda doesn’t react. If this bully wants to assume she’s too stupid to understand him, _let _him. She won’t tell anyone about the men in the room. But she’s not going to forget them, either.

“Come on, this way.”

Forster grabs her arm, pushing her hurriedly further down the corridor to the room marked _F._

This time, when the door opens, it’s to see Dr List waiting with a glum look in his face.

“Who have we–?” his face relaxes. “Ah, Maximoff. Wanda. Lovely. Come right in, girl. That’s it. We’re going to be looking at pictures today. Nice and easy.”

Forster slams the door behind her as soon as Wanda’s in the room, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She doesn’t like his presence, doesn’t like the headache behind her eyes that forms when she’s around him, same as several others in the facility. She gets tired more easily in their company.

Dr List smiles at her, gesturing to one of the comfier seats. She likes Dr List. She likes his soothing presence, like lavender salts, or eucalyptus. Her mother used to drop oil onto her pillow, sometimes, when she slept poorly because of the summer pollen. Wanda sits down, staring straight ahead at the blank white sheet, lit by the empty projector.

“Close your eyes, Miss Maximoff. That’s it. Are you ready to begin?”

Wanda nods, her eyes closed. She thinks about the hood over the man’s head in the other room, then banishes the image from her mind.

“I’m ready,” she says.

She can _feel _how pleased Dr List is, through her very skin.

**_The Guardian Online (US)  
Opinion/Avengers/STARK Industries _**by **_Annie Collins-Hooper  
2 Years On, New York City Deserves Answers  
_**_It’s two years to the day since a wormhole opened over New York City, letting in hordes of an alien army that wreaked chaos, claiming hundreds of lives and injuring even more. The day also marked the first public excursion of the superpowered troupe known as the “Avengers”. What has followed in the aftermath?  
Well, thanks to the savvy PR team of Stark Industries and the cunning of CEO Virginia “Pepper” Potts – the most popular megalomaniac-cum-gold-digger in history – Tony Stark a.k.a. Iron Man is richer than ever. SI share prices, despite a minor hit in the initial thirty-six hours, had skyrocketed within the first twenty days of the alien attack. Mr Stark’s net worth has grown almost thirty-percent year on year as a result of his heavy handed involvement in the Avengers. Meanwhile, Doctor Bruce Banner a.k.a. The Hulk has enjoyed a full pardon after the catastrophic devastation he caused across Harlem in 2008. Not only is the most notorious killer of New York City residents a free man, but he is confirmed to be residing in Stark’s mansion, belatedly repurposed as an “Avengers Tower”. Talk about a clubhouse for the elite, right?  
But what of those responsible for the destruction of much of Manhattan and beyond?  
Well, as this very editorial first detailed in a ten page expose, the havoc was orchestrated by a relative of the muscular mountain, Instagram King by popular vote, off-world legend Thor, who can regularly be found feeding ducks (buzzfeed.com/Avengers/Thor-feeds-ducklings-and-we-are-hungry-too) and romancing Nobel prize-winning physicist Doctor Jane Foster. Thor’s brother, Loki, however, wasn’t working alone. He was assisted by many mercenary recruits. Among these were Doctor Erik Selvig – a colleague of Foster’s – who testified at the Supreme Court to have been mind-controlled, and Special Agent Clint Barton of the secluded agency SHIELD (Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division). If you’re wondering why you haven’t seen anything on Barton’s testimony, that’s because he didn’t give one. In fact, Barton disappeared less than twenty-four hours after the defeat of Loki’s armies and hasn’t been seen since. Are we supposed to sleep safely in our beds at night, knowing a confirmed terrorist slipped past the nets of those charged at the highest order with protecting us? These so-called Avengers are living in the height of luxury, while two years on, over five hundred people or more are reportedly displaced and/or out of work as a direct result of the Battle of New York and Tony Stark’s privatised clean-up initiative.  
We’d like to know when they’re going to see about putting this criminal, and other accomplices, safely behind bars. In his memorial speech alongside President Ellis’ national address this morning, Steve “Captain America” Rogers spoke of a “united future” on the horizon, a clear goal on the road to preventing tragedies like the Battle of New York from ever happening again. Naïve, perhaps, from one of the few remaining individuals who can speak first hand of the atrocities of the Second World War. Tell us, Captain Rogers, is this bright future to the benefit of all, or just your new, star-spangled, silver-spoon friends? This city deserves answers, and it’s about time we start getting some.  
  
**Have you been affected by the Battle of New York’s delayed recovery, or any subsequent Avengers-related incidents? Email us and tell us your story.**_

**triskelion, washington dc.**

**captain america**

The summons is curt, and for once Steve doesn’t feel an instinctive urge to rebuke it. The evening isn’t quite finished filling the sky yet. He’s on the sixth floor, hiding in a spare office and filling in paperwork with a laborious pen and tired eyes. Before he can even put his pen down, the door of the office opens to reveal a pale, pastel painted smirk surrounded by excessively curled red hair.

“Fury wants us upstairs,” Nat says.

“Why do you look like a Russian doll? – Not a joke,” he amends at her acidic glare, stacking his sheaf of papers quickly. “You really do look like – you know.” He waggles his fingers around his face.

“It’s called a matryoshka,” Natasha says pointedly, one perfectly pencilled eyebrow pending delicately. “I wasn’t aware it was an official fetish, but I suppose it’s still less creepy than actual infantilism.”

“I thought you had a rule against kink shaming, Romanoff?” Steve asks idly as he puts his hard copy reports away and follows her out of the door, bag in hand.

_“Please,” _Nat scoffs dryly, dapping at the bottom lip with her thumb but refraining from replying as they nod past two agents in wide-tie, slate grey suits. The agents make mumbles of respect at them both, which Steve tries to respectfully respond to, while Natasha pretends to be temporarily blind.

“You just back?” Steve asks as they enter an empty elevator and make for Nick Fury’s office floor.

“Didn’t even reach the target before I was recalled.”

Nat’s mouth pinches at the corners as she says it. Steve turns his head to stare at her, distracted by her displeasure. What could possibly be so important Fury would pull Nat from a mission so quickly? Steve drums his fingers on the glass of the elevator behind him where he leans as casually as he can manage. Nat doesn’t look fooled in the slightest.

The corridor that greets them when the elevator doors open is empty, and they pick up their pace as they approach the office. One glance inside reveals Fury isn’t alone. Steve exchanges a curious look with Nat, who is visibly surprised for all of a moment, before any reaction is swiftly concealed by her usual disdainful indifference.

Steve forgets, sometimes, that the Natasha he is privy to is a rare sighting, even in the depths of SHIELD. Especially in the depths of SHIELD.

Fury is standing behind his desk when they enter, much the way he did two years ago, when Clint Barton was on the top of the missing persons list and Natasha was one argument away from getting permanently grounded. His office is positively _crowded. _Steve counts nine more faces at a glance, only four of whom are familiar, including Jasper Sitwell and Maria Hill.

Hill, in particular, is a surprise. Last Steve heard she was out of the continent on liaison work, cleaning up a few messes left behind by Interpol and the DGSE. He refrains from looking at Nat to see if she’s noticed. She will have done.

“Welcome, Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff,” Fury says with his usual dry enthusiasm. “Please, take a seat.”

The seats are scattered haphazardly about the room, all facing a large holographic screen currently bearing the SHIELD logo. Steve almost takes one of the peripheral seats, however when Nat continues to the back of the crowd to stand near Sitwell, he joins her, where they both have an excellent vantage point from which to watch every single person in the room.

As soon as they are in place, the lights dim as the windows and glass front darken, and an unfamiliar woman with dark olive skin and thick, coffee coloured curls tied into a bun on her head stands up at the front. There’s a shadow of old bruising along the left side of her face.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she says, glancing around at each face in turn with the attention of a sniper. “For those of you who don’t know me, I am Agent Lucia D’Souza. It should go without saying that the information I’m about to relate to you shall not under any circumstances leave this room.”

Without waiting for confirmation of her assumption, Agent D’Souza raises a small remote on her hand and clicks at the screen behind her, so that it reveals four redacted bios of SHIELD Agents, one woman and three men.

“I regret to inform you that Agents Alain Beale, Simon Farrow, Joshua Daniels, and Barbara Morse were killed during a failed extraction mission nine days ago.”

Though nobody in the room vocalises anything, the shock and fear is tangible. Steve feels a ripple through the air, like a stone cast through a thin layer of frost over a lake. Natasha’s arm is warm pressed against his own. Steve didn’t personally know any of the four, but he recognises Farrow and Morse from other briefings.

D’Souza doesn’t linger on the information. Her dark eyes are steely in the low light cast from the hologram that covers the room in a bluish glow. Steve is reminded, uncomfortably, of Tony’s labs back in New York.

“The target we had been hoping to bring into custody was captured.”

“Who did it?” one of the men sitting down says.

Steve doesn’t know him – glances at the back of his head, caramel tufts badly waxed into place, his arms folded over his chest and his jaw jutting outwards.

D’Souza’s eyes find Fury before replying.

“We don’t know.”

The blustering scurry of rejection that erupts is quickly silenced by Fury clearing his throat, however it leaves a lasting feeling of dirt and dismay about the room, like cockroaches that have scuttled out of sight across the floor. Natasha leans imperceptibly into Steve’s arm.

Agent Lucia D’Souza, for her part, does not appear intimidated by the audible reprehension she has been offered.

“The jet was destroyed – systematically taken apart, with all recording and comms equipment entirely removed. We haven’t yet recovered it. The three agents who had been out in the field – Morse, Farrow and Beale – all had recording capability in their comms and body cam devices in their suits. However, they had also been removed so all backup files are unrecoverable.”

Another rumbling of sound, this time not silenced, before the man at the front, legs splayed, elbows tucked unlikeable, demands:

“How did you get away so easy, Luce?”

There’s a familiar antagonism in the man’s voice, as if this is not the first time he has questioned her. To Steve’s surprise, Fury doesn’t shut him up with another cough. D’Souza’s eyebrows arch considerably, the lines of her mouth tightly pinched together.

“I’m not on trial here, Agent Davenport. But for your information, I was deployed on the light-jet to investigate. My engine was hit. By the time I came to, all signs of intruders were gone, and my team was dead. Feel free to put in a request to hear my own comm recording, if you like.”

“Consider that request pre-emptively denied, Davenport,” Maria Hill says over the chittering of the others, and Davenport sinks a little in his seat.

Agent D’Souza doesn’t acknowledge Hill’s words, but she does move on with a confident click of her remote. The screen changes to a freeze frame shot from a body cam showing the wreckage left behind inside the jet. The engine has been burnt out, and the agent in the pilot’s seat is unrecognisable. His face and chest have been cut apart as if by a huge sword.

“The knife patterns show a marked resemblance to two other incidents in the past year,” D’Souza explains without flinching, while Davenport and the man beside him lean back in their seats. “One was the interception of what was believed to be an Interpol witness transport in Belgium which Agent Davenport will be able to tell you all about, I’m sure. The other is the remains of the AIM facility where Iron Man and War Machine recovered Ms Pepper Potts, as well as vital information on the Mandarin. Experts’ best guess is still that these cuts have been made by a minimum of two, custom-designed swords. Their exact shape is still being rendered from fatal injuries sustained by Daniels, Farrow and Beale.”

Steve doesn’t react to the information, and he knows Nat won’t either, but his curiosity is officially piqued. There’s an anxiousness to the small crowd of Fury’s office, now. Spines are straighter. Fingers are clenched into leg muscles. Shoulders are almost touching earlobes.

“What about Bobbi?” a woman asks – Alison Swift, Steve recognises her from a mission last year. An analyst, he recalls; fluent in four languages, a codebreaking prodigy, with a weakness for toffee sweets.

D’Souza lifts her hand again, clicking the remote. The image changes, this time to Agent Morse, who is at least still recognisable. She’s lying on her back, her tac vest ripped open as if something has been pulled out. Her entire throat is soaked with blood, has dried all the way up to her jaw and stained her ears. Her mouth is open, as if she had died with words on her tongue.

“Agent Morse was shot once, directly in the throat, and fell from her position where she’d been waiting for the target.”

The man sitting next to Agent Davenport looks to his side, smirking at his buddy.

He says: “Perfect Sergeant Barnes.”

Steve feels as if his guts have been ripped out of him.

“Excuse me?” he barks, before he can stop himself, and he almost winces at the stinging pinch of Natasha’s fingers grabbing a tiny piece of the flesh of his arm and squeezing hard. The man and Davenport jerk around, looking guilty as they hunch together.

“That’s enough, Enzo,” Agent D’Souza snaps, and her eyes find Steve’s for the briefest of seconds, and for that briefest of seconds she looks apologetic.

Steve can feel something curdling inside him. He tries, tries and _fails, _to understand what the man, _Enzo, _had meant by something like that. Spoken as if he’d be understood, spoken as if it was a goddamn idiom to be shared. What was it, does falling to her death make her –

Steve shakes it off, his breath quick, his teeth biting, as he grounds himself into the way Natasha is bruising the back of his arm. She’s close, and warm, and her nails will leave dents that might actually last a few hours they’re so deep.

“We’re telling you this, because the target that has gone missing is an agent of a foreign agency we have previously had civil dealings with. I can’t disclose which at this time, but it was a woman called Freya Wallis, code name Rigby.”

The fingers holding a chunk of Steve’s arm tighten impossibly. His breath catches in his throat and he feels Natasha turn to steel at his side.

“How long were you tracking her?” Natasha pipes up. She somehow manages to sound downright bored, which is a damn sight better than Steve is sure he’d manage right now.

D’Souza gets a look in her eye not entirely dissimilar to most people when they are asked an unexpected direct question by the Black Widow. Pounding heart and constricted lungs aside, Steve will never get fed up of Nat’s withering reputation.

“That’s not for this discussion,” Fury says without looking away from D’Souza, and Natasha purses her lips in a displeased expression that D’Souza doesn’t respond to.

“You are all on standby for reassignment should word of Wallis resurface. In the meantime, STRIKE Team ECHO, you’ll be reporting in for a search and extraction, picking up where BRAVO left off. Please go with Deputy Director Hill now for your full briefing. Sitwell, Swift, Gregors, you’re with me.”

The departing movements are quick, ruptured. Chairs patter and scrape, and there’s a grumbling of voices carried out as the lights return to full. Maria Hill catches Steve’s gaze as she walks past, offering a single nod that he returns automatically. Nat lets go on his arm and he feels the bruise swelling where her fingers dug in.

As the agents and analysts file out, Steve and Natasha are left with only the watchful eye of Nick Fury from across his desk. The windows have brightened, however the glass wall that separates them from the corridor remains dark. As soon as the door has closed behind Agent Lucia D’Souza, Fury gestures them to seats, which they take silently.

“There’s something else, I asked D’Souza not to share with the rest of the class,” he says, because of _course _he did.

Steve can barely withhold the sigh of disapproval. He knows Nat hears it anyway. Her mouth twitches curiously as she glances at him.

Fury picks up a small remote for the screen, which is still showing Bobbi Morse’s blank, pale stare. It switches to an audio file, which plays, fast-forwarding almost all the way until they get to:

-_ Bluejay to Eagle, I have eyes on the prize. Target plus one driver. No backup._

_-This is Eagle, roger that. Mockingbird, can you confirm visual?_

_-Negative, Eagle._

_-Hold your position._

There’s a brief pause, the crackle of background noise. Steve glances at Nat, but her eyes are fixed on the screen.

When Agent Morse’s voice returns, it’s a shade reedier than before.

_\- Mockingbird to Eagle, I have movement on the northeast rooftop._

There’s the click of a comm channel change, a new thread of audio, then:

_-Eagle, this is Nest. Confirm your location._

_-I’ve lost his position._

_-What do you mean you’ve lost his position?_

_-He’s offline._

_-Bluejay, confirm your location. Bluejay. Is he showing?_

_-Yes. He’s receiving you._

_-Nest to Bluejay. Come in, Bluejay. Shit._

_CLICK_

_\- Eagle, this is Mockingbird, do you copy? I have movement on the northeast roof._

_\- Mockingbird, this is Nest. We have lost contact with Bluejay and Eagle. Dispatching Peregrine to their location now._

_CLICK_

_-Peregrine, I need you at Eagle’s last visible location._

_-It will take a minute._

_-We don’t have a fucking minute. I’ll keep trying for Bluejay. You get to Eagle first._

_CLICK_

_-Eagle, this is Peregrine. Acknowledge if you can hear this transmission. --- Peregrine to Eagle, I am on route to your location. Acknowledge. --- Eagle, this is Peregrine. Acknowledge._

_CLICK_

_-Nest to Peregrine, Bluejay is non-responsive. Target is expected in T-minus sixty seconds._

_-Copy that._

_CLICK_

_-Peregrine to Bluejay. Come in, Bluejay. I am on route to Eagle’s location. Eagle is – shit. Bluejay, acknowl-_

_\--GRINE MAYDAY MAYDAY THIS IS BLUEJAY ABORT MISSION --- I REPEAT ABORT ABORT COME IN PEREGRINE --- THERE’S --- ABORT --- FUCKING BIRD --- COME IN PEREGR---_

_-Peregrine to Bluejay. Come in, Bluejay._

_CLICK_

_\- Abort mission. Agents down. Mockingbird, this is Peregrine. Abort. Vacate your position. ABORT._

_CLICK_

_-Peregrine to Nest, Eagle is down. I repeat. Eagle is down, I suspect Bluejay is too._

_CLICK_

_-Abort mission Mockingbird._

_CLICK_

_-Peregrine to Nest, acknowledge. Peregrine to Nest. Come in._

_CLICK_

_-Peregrine to Bluejay, I’m coming. Fuck. Acknowledge. Please acknowledge._

_CLICK_

_-MOCKINGBIRD ACKNOWLEDGE ME --- ABORT MISSION NOW --- EAGLE AND BLUEJAY DOWN._

_CLICK_

_-NEST! NEST! COME IN NEST!_

_CLICK_

Fury turns off the recording, and Steve lets out a long gust of a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Agent D’Souza’s voice is still shrill in his eardrums. Fury puts the remote back on his desk, lacing his fingers together and looking across at both Steve and Natasha as if waiting for a review.

When neither offer one, Fury gives his own.

“Amongst other weaponry, we found some highly advanced drone technology in AIM’s supplies when we raided Aldrich Killian’s facilities last year.”

“Drones?” Natasha scoffs loudly. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“It’s a working theory,” Fury continues in the same level tone as always, ever the only person not to recoil from such outright disdain. Ever the only person Natasha doesn’t quite push her luck with. “That’s not why I want you in on this.”

Steve makes as absolutely polite a face as he possibly can. By the smirk Fury returns him, it’s not very effective.

“The swords,” Natasha cuts in before Fury can finish his train of thought. Fury has no choice but to nod. “Are we talking Masamune or South Carolina?”

Steve’s behind on the first reference, surprised by the second, and not at all surprised that Natasha Romanoff is well read on swords in the slightest.

“Closer to Masamune,” Fury says, leaning a little heavier into his forearms. “No fibres or filaments left behind. All clean cuts. It’s not serrated, and it cuts through bone. Even with pure sharpened steel, you’ve got to be a strong son of a bitch to wield that kind of blow with a sword.”

Steve can’t even _imagine. _Or rather, he can, but he’s surprised anyone without super serum in their veins could, too. He thinks about his shield, the blunt hard edges. The way more than once it’s cut right through someone’s neck, when thrown too forcefully at the wrong – _right _– angle.

Fury continues, unperturbed.

“I want you to talk to the Swordsman.”

“Absolutely not,” Natasha replies, and it’s spoken with such vehemence Steve can’t keep from turning to look at her. He’s shocked momentarily, had forgotten she was painted those ridiculous shades of ruby and porcelain, and with that vengeful expression it’s as if she’s turned to marble.

“He’ll talk to you, Romanoff.”

Her laugh is crow-like, exaggerated beyond belief.

“He’d lie out of spite. I broke him, remember?”

“Well,” Fury sighs, picking up a file from his desk and dropping it in front of her. “He got better.”

Steve watches the exchange with silent, burning interest. There’s very little he’s ever seen Natasha get so worked up about so quickly. In fact, only one thing. One person. But what would this have to do with Hawkeye?

Natasha picks up with the file, skims through the three pages inside once, and tosses it back.

“Not interested.”

“This isn’t an offer.”

“I’m vetoing. It’s in my contract.”

“Your right to veto become null and void when you ignored _my right _as _your superior _to shut down your own private investigations, Agent Romanoff.”

Natasha smiles at him, a tremoring, doll’s face. She’s pristine and beautiful and Steve aches for the sad wells of her eyes. He doesn’t know why she’s hurting so suddenly, but he knows it’s in his instincts now to protect her from it. She’s in his instincts, now.

“We’ll discuss this privately, and get back to you,” Steve says, reaching over to pick up the file. Natasha shoots him a look, as if she can’t decide whether to be angry or grateful, so settles for suspicious instead. Fury gives him a look that is purely angry, but that’s par for the course, and Steve isn’t worried. “Director Fury.”

With a nod of his head, Steve stands up and walks towards the door. He hears Natasha’s voice, and turning back he sees she’s leaned over to murmur something close to Fury’s face but Steve doesn’t pick it up. She follows him quickly, out of the office, into the corridor and beyond.

Steve shoves the file inside his bag with the other reports, out of sight and out of mind.

“Dinner?” he asks, feeling breathless and famished.

“Why not,” Natasha replies icily. “We’ve already had the show.”

They get takeout, and sit on the floor of Steve’s apartment with a movie muted in the background, just for a splash of colour. Natasha rips her way through the first half of her Napoli pizza like it’s fresh oxygen. She barely looks up from slice after slice, scowling down at the open box warming her lap while Steve methodically works his way through each bite, because he’s raced through enough meals in his lifetime. He likes to relish it, when he can.

At the halfway point, Natasha flops back to lean against the sofa, her hands clasped on her belly. She licks the remnant sauce from her lips, smudging the dark smears of lipstick.

Steve smiles.

He prefers her like this. Smudged, bloated with pizza, her hair out of place; looking grumpy the way cats and small children are grumpy. Natasha tips her head to the side, catches his grin and rolls her eyes. She picks up the beer bottle beside her and sips.

“It upset you, what Enzo said,” she says candidly.

For a moment, Steve forgets. Then.

_Perfect Sergeant Barnes._

That gut wrench all over again, he remembers. He sees in his mind’s eyes, Bobbi Morse splattered on the ground. It’s a disgrace, a disgrace to Agent Morse, a disgrace to _Bucky, _he doesn’t understand why somebody would be so goddamn cruel –

“He meant the shot,” Natasha says, louder, as if she knows she’s interrupting a freight train weight of barrelling thoughts.

Steve looks back at her, dropping his pizza slice and picking up his beer just for something more grounding to hold.

“What?”

“Morse was shot in the throat,” Natasha says, and even as the words fall out of her mouth the recall pierces Steve’s heart. “That was Barnes’ signature shot, wasn’t it? He shot them in the throat. There have been entire academic journals dedicated to Bucky Barnes’ throat shots in the war.”

Steve grimaces, bringing the cold bottle close to his chest to rest it on his sternum. The condensation soaks through his shirt quickly, a chill against his lungs. A rushing urge to rectify the notion fills his entire being.

“It wasn’t – he did it when he had to. Sometimes – sometimes, if they were wearing helmets, and he couldn’t get a headshot, or guarantee a quick death if he got them in the chest. If we were on the approach, and he needed to take them down quietly. It was just – when he _had _to. So they couldn’t shout out; couldn’t warn anyone we were coming. It wasn’t outta –”

“Steve,” Natasha interrupts, even going so far as to reach out to touch his knee. Her eyes are that bright, sad colour again. Her eyelashes are heavy with mascara, gummed together at the corners. “You don’t have to defend him, or justify it. He’s a war hero. He was the best, and he did what he had to do, to keep Captain America and his Commandos safe. He’s _famous _for it.”

Steve looks down the mouth of his bottle, Natasha’s fingers burning into his knee. When she lets go, he misses the touch but he daren’t ask for it back. He likes their intimacy, the way it is now. But it’s easiest when they’re apart, flirting, in action, untouchable. It feels stifling, sometimes, to be alone with her.

Perhaps to distract him, or perhaps to distract herself, Natasha pulls herself back upright and starts on another slice of pizza. With a mouthful of cheese, she continues.

“It’s hardly unheard of, for assassins to use it as a kill method. There was a US sniper, in the seventies. Adam Piper. Called himself the Sergeant Barnes of Vietnam, because he had the highest kill record, and he always shot them in the throat.”

It’s not a good distraction. It burns in the back of Steve’s eyelids. His throat. His spine.

Bucky would _hate _that. He’d hate to think the most lasting thing about him is the way he killed, the efficiency of it, the ruthlessness. Bucky carried on his soul like a tumour, the things he did. Steve watched it weigh him down day after day. He never complained, not once. But he sure as heck didn’t _celebrate _it, either.

Steve feels possessively hurt on his behalf. How dare they?

How dare they mar his memory like that, let him be remembered for the way he took lives and not the way he _saved _them.

“Steve –”

Natasha’s warning comes too late, and the bottle breaks in his hands, splintering and spilling beer all over him.

“Shit!” he gasps, and Natasha laughs gently. Steve does, too. “How many times,” he grumbles, pulling bits of glass out of his hand while Natasha reaches over for a towel from the coffee table and hands it over.

Steve wipes away the beer and blood, staggering away to his bedroom while Natasha starts scraping up the glass from the floor. She shouts a teasing admonishment through the apartment, which Steve promptly ignores, giving himself the time it takes to dry off and change his shirt to regain control of his shaky breathing.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t _matter._

It’s in the past. It _is _the past. Bucky’s gone, and no amount of screaming and shouting about who knew him best is going to change the fact that he’s the only person left alive who ever really knew the real James Barnes. It doesn’t matter.

It _shouldn’t _matter.

“I’m going to start keeping score, Rogers,” Natasha says when he re-enters, brandishing a cup of beer she’s poured for him. A _plastic _cup of beer, because she’s a smartass.

Steve doesn’t comment, and instead takes a large swig of beer and sits back down, this time to better lean against the sofa, too.

In a signature move of her own, Natasha bangs elbows with him as she reads his mind, stating:

“It doesn’t matter what any asshole thinks of him. You know the truth.”

She doesn’t look at him – is too busy with her pizza and her beer and Gene Kelly on the screen. Steve nods anyway, tugging his knees to his chest, and is overcome with the realisation that Natasha understands _perfectly, _this time. This isn’t some approximation, this is. Precise.

Steve thinks about the reporters from the other day who had gathered at the White House to hear the President and his pets War Machine and Captain America talk about lasting peace after the Battle of New York. The scumbags who shouted after for news of _the Missing_ _Terrorist Barton._

The entire world has a wrong idea of the man Natasha loves. She must see and hear it all the time, every day. How Hawkeye is an accomplice, a defector, a traitor. Even within SHIELD, there are naysayers. What’s Steve doing, griping about the way people remember Bucky’s darkest sharp shooting? At least it was the _truth, _discomfiting and tragic as that truth might be.

At least the world doesn’t think him to be a murderer.

Steve reaches over to forcefully clink his plastic cup against Natasha’s beer bottle. She accepts it begrudgingly.

“Who’s the Swordsman?” he asks, while he’s chancing his luck.

Natasha sees right through him. Her eyes, glittery and black-rimmed and piercing.

“A bad guy, Steve,” she drawls like whiskey scraped from a barrel. “He’s a bad guy.”

She doesn’t offer anything more, and Steve doesn’t demand it. They sit in silence, and drink their beer, and watch Gene Kelly twirl and leap, and eat their pizza. Steve checks the back of his right arm. The pinched bruise of Natasha’s fingers has almost faded, faint crescents from her nails still visible.

He smiles, and catches Nat looking. She smiles too.

**fortress**

**hawk**

The Soldier is gone.

The Hawk knows, every time he wakes up. It’s how he starts his day. The Soldier is there, or the Soldier is gone. It’s the foundation of his actions, whether or not the Soldier is there. So when the Hawk wakes up, and the Soldier is gone, he takes stock of who is _not _gone.

Halford is there. She’s sitting at a computer, typing in select rhythms that sound like coding. Her hair is down, curling neatly behind her ears and even from this distance, the Hawk can see a smudge of black grease on her ear from her fingers when she tucked the locks off her face. As he watches, she pauses briefly in her typing to yawn, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

Shaking herself, Halford returns to her work with renewed vigour. Under the desk where she sits, one of her feet is twitching incessantly.

After fifteen minutes, she finishes with a flourishing, loud _smack _of the enter key, leans back with her fingers in her hair and yawns again. When she opens her eyes, she finds Hawk’s face, and doesn’t show an ounce of surprise to find him awake.

She’s got this smile stretching her pink mouth. Pleased, pleasured, pleasurable.

“Come here,” she says, and the Hawk clambers to his feet. Opens his cage door, and walks to her, his wings locked back snugly against his shoulders. He thinks there was a time when they weren’t there. His bones hurt, sometimes, his muscles demand reprieve. But they are part of him. Or perhaps he is part of them.

The wings are lethal. Strong, stronger than every other piece of him. He can feel the vibration of the mechanism in his spine, his pelvis, his ribcage.

Halford says: “I’ve got a job that needs seeing to.”

The Hawk waits, kneeling as commanded, his face upturned to meet her pale green eyes, watery in the feeble light. Halford yawns again, her knuckles pressed tightly against her mouth. Then, for some reason, lets out a gleeful chuckle and shakes her head.

“I’m leaving you with Kapanen for now. You’ve done well.”

The Hawk nods once, no further response required.

Halford likes acknowledgement. Halford likes eye contact. Halford doesn’t like unsolicited verbal responses.

She stands up out of her chair, walking around and the Hawk does not flinch, senses her closeness and the movement of the air from the sensitivity of the faintly vibrating metal in his spine. When she reaches out to touch the back of his neck, he anticipates the coolness of her finger.

She traces a word into his skin, then down until she’s touching the first wing joint. The primitive receptors spin through him – pain and pleasure battling through his nerves.

“I want –” Halford says.

However, whatever it is that Halford wants, the Hawk does not hear.

It happens so quickly that were he not already on his knees, he knows he would have fallen to the ground. One moment he is staring at Halford’s empty chair, her presence tingling behind him.

The next, he is in a scarlet void of agony.

A violent red mist explodes inside the Hawk’s head, blinding him. The pain is abhorrent, overwhelming. The Hawk opens his mouth, curling his face into his elbows and scraping his blunt nails over the metal plates in his skull. He thinks he might be yelling, can feel the sounds rattling in his throat, but he doesn’t know, because he can’t hear it.

His head is full – full of a girl’s voice, she’s screaming screeching shrieking, she’s a cliff-face and a blizzard of red.

He can see – see scarlet smoke hazy – a mirage – a distant memory –

An apartment – his apartment? It’s covered in dust –

Rubble –

A hollow ceiling –

He’s hiding – hiding in a pair of arms – his brother’s arms –

His brother is holding him –

Fingers, bleeding – a boy’s face – red hair – blond hair – fingers in red hair –

His brother’s hand on his face – grandpa’s stew – mama’s voice –

A room in tatters – the sofa unstuffed – a bottle hurtling towards his face –

A bomb – a word on the bomb – words – _STARK INDUSTRIES _emblazoned, taunting –

His brother, his freckles – strong hands hauling the Big Top ropes – blisters on his palms –

Blistered hands touching his face –

The girl is screaming and the Hawk is buried in it – her ferocity, her terror –

Her hand on his neck – _I never wanted one anyway _– and the little girl from the market her hand clutching his pinky –

_You have heart –_

A Soldier’s bright blue eyes –

Her brother’s hands on her face holding her – papa’s bloody mouth parched white with plaster –

His brother’s hand on the wound his brother’s hand in the wound his brother’s hand on the knife in the wound –

_You don’t need a therapy dog –_

Take care of each other mama begged and her brother promised and she promised they promised they’d take care of each other where is he where are they what are they doing who are –

_Clint my name is Clint my name is Clint Barton_

_Did it hurt?_

She screams and the red mist scorches out of her and the Hawk rears and screams and the red inside her inside him –

The Hawk wakes up.

_“This is entirely your doing. Do you understand that? Do you understand you have jeopardised everything we have been working towards for nearly two fucking years – for eighty fucking years – because you want to play with toys you don’t fucking well understand! I should set my fucking dogs on you, List, you’ve done nothing but screw everything up since you got here. I can’t believe you. Your little firework display nearly killed my Hawk. He was bleeding from his fucking ears, you moron. I want you to get that girl a thousand miles away from everybody else, drop her in the ocean for all I care, but I’m telling you now. If my Hawk goes down like that ever again you had better believe it, my Soldier will rip your spine out through your mouth. Have I made myself perfectly fucking clear?”_

Manera locks the engine ports into the wings with his usual routine efficiency, slapping the rib belt once he’s done. The Hawk smoothly rises from his knees to his feet. The Soldier is standing on his left. His mask is on, his eyes covered up, but the Hawk can feel he is looking at him, assessing the new blades in the bases of the wings.

“With me,” Manera says, and the Hawk and Soldier follow, flanking him.

They make their way swiftly through the fortress, to the jet landing pad where Secor is waiting.

“Airborne in ten,” Manera says. “Halford’s dropping contact so it’s Kapanen’s eyes only from here on in.”

Secor takes the news in his stride, gesturing to the jet as he walks ahead of the trio. He’s lean; paler than usual. He has little to say that isn’t comm checks or acknowledgements, and he lets Manera take the lead once they’re inside.

The Hawk takes a seat, the Soldier opposite him. They are mirrors, awaiting reflections, and Manera stands between them, his back to the Soldier as he clicks upwards at the Hawk, who rolls his head forwards just far enough to accept the hood shoved indelicately over his head.

The choker locks around his throat, almost constricting. Light and sound and swallowed up, the far end of a starless universe, where he is alone. His head hurts, and his skin is tingling with electric static. He tries to remember why, but it’s a hollow scoop in his memory, and he is on a mission, and he dismisses the thought even as it occurs, the way a horse’s tail dismisses a fly.

_Has he ever ridden a horse?_

The Hawk breathes slowly and evenly. The Soldier is sitting opposite him.

He awaits further instruction.

**a memory, or a fantasy**

The blond man is an idiot. He is dazzling, devious, devout as a mis-numbered rosary. Never even salutes right, when he bothers. Waves it from his forehead like a waggled greeting, songbird chorus in his rich blue eyes. Richest thing about him, those eyes. Poor as dirt, they are, they were. Nickels in his hands rattling like diamonds.

They climb the hill in a line, single file, and the blond man leads the way even though his helmet isn’t bulletproof and he’s not the one holding the sniper rifle but then again, the blond man is committed to his idiocy.

Stretching out before them from the crest of the hilltop: a battered, bruised country. Green gives way to the purple-blue of flooded trenches dug and abandoned. This was a front line, once, but now it is disclaimed and reclaimed. They trudge down the other side with boots slipping in mud. Someone skids onto their backside and they swear loud enough to displace the pigeons.

“Guinea fowl,” someone says, when one is shot down. The blond man tries to take an even share but a bigger portion is shoved into his unwilling hands and he eats it like a starving man who cannot taste anything but ash. Guilt, that broken rosary hanging invisibly around his neck.

“You’re thinning out,” the blond man says, those morose sapphires in a face spoiled with grimy sweat.

There’s a grumbling from the rest of them, a chorus of pigeons, guinea fowl, _don’t care don’t want don’t need. _The feathers are everywhere, plucked and pilfered. One smoke grey _plume _stuck in a Sergeant cap. Laughter in the grasses, wet as the soil they sleep on.

The Soldier watches the Hawk’s face disappear under the hood.

Stares at the place where his bluish eyes are covered up. Imagines their brightness, their brilliance, in the gloom.

**avengers tower, new york city**

**pepper potts**

It’s been a while since Pepper Potts rated her days on a scale of _good _to _bad._

For one thing, having Tony Stark in her life has more or less guaranteed that this is a scale lacking in appropriate extremes, and something closer to being from _ecstatic perfection _to _catastrophic _would allow for much more detailed descriptors. For another, Pepper hasn’t the faintest idea what good or bad days are anymore, really.

Honestly, Pepper’s days run on a venn diagram of three important spectrums: how _tired _she is when she starts the day, how _busy _she is while the day is going on, and how _angry _she is by the time the day is over.

Today she woke up tired, on account of it being the sixth time she’d woken up between the hours of two and five AM.

Today has been moderately busy, enough time for lunch but not enough time to finish the cup of freshly brewed coffee a bizarrely shame-faced robot had delivered for her in the early afternoon.

(She had texted Tony to inform him if he keeps on shouting at Butterfingers, she’s going to keep him for herself. Tony had responded by sending U directly to her office with a perfectly toasted bagel and a sign around his arm stating: _Free to a pitying home.)_

Today, as the day crawls slowly towards an acceptable end, she is lightly irritated at worst.

This probably comes closer to _good _than _bad, _if such a scale still exists.

Tony has kept good on his promise to minimise his working days to less than fourteen hours a session for five weeks straight now, and as Pepper checks her watch for the eighth time in half as many minutes, it occurs to her that Tony has been very accommodating of her mild hypocrisy. Not once has he kicked up a fuss about the pushed reservations and juggled-rejuggled-rerejuggled schedules she’s caused on account of meetings and conferences and last minute calls and overly anxious clients who still feel putout at someone without the name _Stark _running Stark Industries.

She knows better than to mention quite as much to Tony, of course. Pepper is going to marry that man one day, and she’s going to do it properly. She’s not going to wake up to find out Tony has had them legally wed behind her back and her name changed overnight while she slept.

Shutting down her computer, Pepper drums her fingers on the glass top of her desk, scanning the pleasantly, if impersonally decorated room with an objective curiosity. She doesn’t really look at the contents of this room much. She’s trying – _trying_ not to be here too much, trying not to be too at home here.

Tony might not have kicked up any fusses, but that doesn’t mean she’s deserving of his eternal patience. She knows it’s nothing but bad feeling holding him back from commenting, and it bites at her heart to think there’s anything he wouldn’t say to her. They should be past silences. They _are _past silences, for the most part.

They’re _talking._

They’re laughing and smiling at each other. They make jokes and tease each other and wind each other up and it’s all the best parts of loving a person, the parts that sometimes go away when the worry creeps into the comfort, and things that were special start to become, well, not. When sleeplessness pervades and nightmares happen in daylight.

No more.

Pepper smiles, turning off her phone and standing up.

Happy’s inside before she can slide her chair back under her desk.

“Finished already?” he asks, looking pointedly proud of her. Pepper nearly blushes as she laughs.

“Yes, Happy,” she says with a wry roll of her eyes. “Mr Mackintosh and his subsidiaries will still be there to fuss over in the morning.”

“Yes, they will,” Happy agrees. Rather than swinging the door wider and stepping out of the way as he usually does, however, Happy stays in the doorway. “You’ve got a guest. She insisted you weren’t disturbed until you were finished.”

“Who –” Pepper says, however before she can finish the guest in question appears just behind Happy’s shoulder. “Natasha!”

Natasha smiles, thanking Happy for his help and he gestures her into the office and closes the door behind her.

“Ms Potts,” Natasha says in the warm, dry voice Pepper likes to think of as her _Natalie _voice. “You’re the boss, you know. Delegation is key.”

“And you’re an expert in delegating, I’m sure, Agent Romanoff,” Pepper retorts. “What are you doing here? You should have come in as soon as you got here.”

They retreat to the short L-sofa tucked in the corner of the room, where they are bathed in the warmth of the indoor lights and the rosy glitter of Manhattan in the evening. With two glasses of ice water quickly poured, Natasha finally answers, one leg smoothly crossing over the other where she sits, backlit and casually dressed.

“I have something I need to talk to you about. I thought it would be best to wait until you didn’t have any more work for the day.”

It doesn’t take much for Pepper’s anxieties to make themselves known, these days. It takes a lot for them to get overwhelming, that’s for sure – but even at Natasha’s knowing calmness, Pepper feels the stir of worry in her gut and chest. She clutches her ice water at her knee.

“Oh?” she asks, though she knows the potential subject matters ahead are severely limited.

Natasha puts her own glass down on the coffee table. Her dark red hair has been scraped back off her face unusually tightly, giving her cheeks a sharpness that only emphasises the natural downturn of her mouth. Pepper can’t remember if that’s how she always looked – if _Natalie Rushman_ had seemed as perpetually melancholy then as Natasha Romanoff does now.

“What you saw, in the AIM facility, when you escaped. Can you describe it?”

Pepper glances away, to the window – the fresh air separated by a thick barrier of glazing.

“Why do you need to ask?” she says, and she’s proud that her voice doesn’t waver with the bitterness that spoils the taste of her water. “I know Tony told you.”

“Because I’d like to hear it from you,” Natasha says without backing down.

When Pepper turns back, there is nothing but passive curiosity in her grass-glaze eyes. No pity, or amusement, or disbelief. Not even sympathy, or kindness. She is only curious, truthfully so; it’s easier to assuage curiosity than pander to sympathy.

“I was delirious,” Pepper reminds her. Natasha is visibly not distracted by it. “I was _seeing _things. I hallucinated Tony at one point. I mean – I thought I was talking to my dad for over an hour down there.”

Natasha politely takes a sip of her water instead of interrupting, and to her dismay Pepper feels more words tumbling out of her.

“The man I – the one I thought saved me. Or, or did save me. It could have been anybody. It could have been _Killian. _It could have just been a guard who changed his mind and felt bad.”

“Felt bad about the CEO of Stark Industries being in danger, but not the President of the United States?” Natasha asked, and _now _she sounds amused, though it’s a shared thing. It’s what Pepper trusted most about her, when she was merely Natalie. She knows men, knows how they are, how they can be, how they will be.

What she means, of course, is felt bad about the woman crying in the basement.

“Fifty percent of chivalry is just chauvinism in disguise,” Pepper throws back at her, and they laugh – a gift from Natasha, a ripple of discomfort from Pepper.

Natasha shifts a few inches closer on the seat, projecting her movements the way one might a stray cat, and Pepper doesn’t like the treatment but she understands it. She appreciates it, all the same, coming from Natasha, who does not lightly spare people’s feelings.

“Please say it,” Natasha says.

Those eyes – those saddest eyes, Pepper has an extraordinary amount of affection for all of the pocket doll Avengers Tony’s collected about him, but the lion’s share belongs to Natasha. Pepper somehow always feels very old and very young, when she talks to Natasha.

“I thought – I thought he was an angel.”

“Why?”

Pepper laughs, feeling choked at the memory of that burning, terrible fear. The way she had been filled with smoke and lava, and a pair of hands cool on her skin. Could she have made it up? She felt it, felt the brushing of that strange cocoon –

“Because I thought he had wings,” Pepper says, her eyes drawn to the ceiling, stung with salt momentarily.

Natasha’s hand wraps around her wrist lightly.

“You saw them?”

Pepper shrugs, not quite hard enough to throw the grip from her arm. She takes a larger gulp of her water to clear her throat, followed by a steadying breath before she can look back at Natasha’s face.

“I felt them. It was like this shape, all around him. And when – _if _– he picked me up – it was like being inside a cage. I felt – _safe.”_

“You didn’t think he would hurt you?” Natasha asks.

Pepper thinks, perhaps, if she had had to guess Natasha’s profession based solely on her tone of voice, she might have guessed a therapist. There’s a soothing dispassion to it, a warmth that isn’t stifling. Or perhaps that’s just how she is with Pepper. If so, she feels awfully lucky, to have a friend like Natasha Romanoff.

“I – knew he wouldn’t,” Pepper says, and waits for the onslaught that followed from her actual therapist, from Happy, from Tony, from her _Mom. _What possible reason could she have to believe that?

“How did you know?”

Pepper looks at Natasha’s hand on her arm. The looseness of her fingers, the weight of her palm. What she wants to say, truthfully, is: _I knew the same way I know I can trust you won’t harm me, either. I knew because I felt it. I knew because there’s a particular kind of gentle that belongs to very few people in this world._

Instead, she replies: “I don’t know. I just felt safe.”

Natasha withdraws, then. Her hand returns to her lap, and she scoots an inch back.

“And his face?”

Pepper shakes her head, as disappointed now as she was when she woke up.

“I didn’t see a face. I think it was covered. Like he had a mask on.”

Natasha’s lips twist, very briefly, before she nods. There’s a resolve in her expression that dissolves quickly into something cleaner, smoother. Her smile, when it appears, has the forced friendliness of disappointment and compassion.

“Are you going up to the quarters?” she asks, and Pepper nods as they stand together.

“I am in dire need of a chablis,” is all she can think to reply with, boldly offering an arm to link. She’s not entirely sure whether or not her friendship with Natasha extends to arm linking and chablis, but it’s worth a shot –

As it turns out, their friendship _is _in fact at an arm linking and chablis level.

“Have you talked to Tony about what you saw?” Natasha asks, precisely once, holding her white wine close to her mouth.

Pepper nods, very small and very silent, and that’s the end of it.

**(отчет trans. DOCTOR C-------- H------ ASSIGNED HANDLER --/--/2012 - present** **MISSION REPORT – --/--/2014)**

_Target retrieval - - STJ - - 6 Agent > **successful.**_

** _ASSET PAIR DEPLOYMENT 5 for 5 / MISSION SUCCESS STATUS 5 for 5_ **

_Reporting leader A---- M----- | Approval for Asset handling **sustained. **Target returned to holding base 8Jd3 (R------, N—M-----). Interrogation proceeding (z5decryptP)._

** _ASSET EVALUATION re: СОЛДАТ  
_ ** _Asset compromise: 0%  
Agent casualties: 0  
Opposition casualties: 2  
Asset damage: Negligible abrasion, zero required attendance  
**ASSET EVALUATION re: JASTRZĄB  
**Asset compromise: 0%  
Agent casualties: 0  
Opposition casualties: 3  
Asset damage: Negligible abrasion, zero required attendance**  
** **PLUS **1 secondary blade <left-wing> requiring attention – First time offence – Advance warning action required – ENACTED --/--2014_

**a dream, a dream**

She’s naked, and comfortable. Goosebumps on her arms, leaning back into the hands scraping thick and wet through her hair. She smells of chemicals, in her follicles, staining the gloves on the hands scratching over her scalp. When she tips her head back, her eyes barely closed: ecstasy in a face, the kind of peace she denies herself too easily.

She laughs at something, and says: “I’m trusting you with my hairline, _Solntse. _This is you levelling up right now.”

Her voice echoes against the bathroom tiles, swelling in the warm air that’s spilling out through the door – an open door, with a broken handle. It hasn’t been fixed yet. It’s on the list.

She hums quietly, then chuckles. Her eyes are still closed.

Abruptly, she commands: “It’s _hang _a name on you, not _throw. _Will you just listen to the song before you butcher it?”

Her smile grows anyway, like the sun in the morning. She opens her eyes.

They’re green.

**fortress, sokovia**

**scarlet witch**

It’s been a few hours since she woke up, and nobody has so much as approached the door to her room.

Wanda knows this for sure, because there’s a particular hum that tugs at her outer senses whenever a person is nearby. She cannot hear their thoughts, exactly; however, the vibration of their whirring minds is unmistakeable, chafing unpleasantly against her raw nerves like steel wool over sensitive skin.

The pulsing sensation in her fingers has dulled somewhat, since that initial, scorching burst that had lit up her insides like a firework display. She couldn’t make sense of it at the time – and little has changed since. The flashes of sound and colour had been so vivid, so _real, _not even the most detailed of her grandfather’s stories could produce such intensity of imagination. They had come from somewhere – from _someone._

She knows a handful of them had been from Pietro’s mind. She had seen her own face, reflected back at her. She had felt his fear, his love, his pride, all the beauty of his soul interlocked with her own. But the rest of it – she can still picture those scrutinising green eyes, that freckly boy’s face. And that huge looming mountain, the silver-gold spikes of light from a train cutting through the cliff-face.

It had come from somewhere – from _someone._

A disturbance startles Wanda from her reverie. She sits up on her bed, her hands tightly clasped in her lap stretched out before her. She stares hard at the door, searching instinctively for something familiar.

She finds it immediately, and a soothing kiss of a much needed presence balms the wounds of her worry.

Pietro opens the door, and slips inside, waving a key at her, flipping it between his fingers.

“You’re going to get us into trouble,” she says with an arched eyebrow, even as a smile forces its way onto her face.

Pietro’s expression is one of mock hurt, clutching at his chest is dismay. Their childhood written in the silver spark of his eyes.

“You think so little of me?” he asks, taking a detour around the sparse room to flick one of the seesaw mechanisms on a shelf. Instinctively, Wanda reaches out, fingers and mind, to stop it from moving. Pietro tips his head, intrigued, and sits down near her knees. One of his hands is warm on her shins.

Wanda places her fingers delicately on top of her brother’s, half-afraid of that fiery red magic that had poured out of her in her panic the first time – and the second, and the third, and the fourth.

“What do you need?” Pietro asks, in a tone so reminiscent of their mother it’s physically painful. Wanda has to squeeze his fingers, her eyes closed to contain the sudden urge to cry out. A hand runs over her head, smoothing back her hair. “Talk to me. I’m here.”

Keeping a tight hold of his fingers with one hand, Wanda lifts up her other hand and holds it just out of reach of Pietro’s cheekbone. It’s sharpened in his face – he’s lost weight he could ill afford to. He moves like he’s cut from sheets of metal: strong, yet unyielding.

“Can I see?” she asks, and her brother, her twin, her very best friend in a friendless world, nods so trustingly it breaks her heart.

Wanda presses her hand cautiously against her brother’s stubbly cheek. His eyes close, and she sees it:

_“Again,” Dr List says, the same as before._

_He’s shivering, he’s so tired: he can feel the muscles strapped to his limbs in wiry ropes contracting with spasms. His knees are hollow, shaky. When he veers to one side and stumbles over, the ground catches him painfully._

_“Up!” Dr List shouts. “Again!”_

_He gets up, trembling. His hands flat on the floor, taking his weight. Tears of frustration are leaking hotly over his clammy face. He’s soaked in a cold sweat – no, sweat that has turned cold, and is digging claws into his joints. He aches all over. He aches like the rubble of a bombsite._

_“Again!”_

_He lets out a cry of anguish: he can’t run again. He can’t run anymore. He’s dizzy and sick and –_

_A corridor, his bare feet dragging on the floor. Two pairs of hands, one on each upper arm, leaving bruises. He’s wet – sweaty, or hosed down? He can’t remember. He thinks he was sick, can taste it in his mouth. A door opens and he rolls inside._

_No, tossed in, knees elbows face, a crack on the stone and then he rolls onto his back._

_“Wait here,” someone says, maybe to him, maybe to someone else._

_He follows the orders anyway because the alternative is – there is no alternative. He cannot possibly move._

_His breaths are panicked, he’s hungry, he’s agonisingly hungry. There isn’t enough blood in his body. There isn’t enough oxygen in his lungs. Where is he? He needs to run – no, no more running. No more running ever again. He can’t. His legs are as loose as if each joint had been dislocated and maybe they have._

_No voices. No sounds. Only his heartbeat thrumming like it did when he stared at the bomb in the –_

_He can do this. He can survive. He can. He will. He will succeed._

_Bright lights when he opens his eyes – when did he close them? He squints, and tries to look around. There’s a shape in the corner of the room. A man’s shape. He opens his mouth, tries to speak but only gargled syllables come out. The whimpers of his childhood – he’s a grown man, goddamnit, or so he should be. He should be. No time for tears!_

_They spill anyway. A sob wrenches out of him, like another hurling heave of his stomach._

_The man-shape draws closer._

_Soft, on his face. Soft, tender like he can’t remember –_

_“Please,” he tries to say but the man doesn’t listen and –_

_The man, the same man. He’s sitting in a chair watching – he’s sitting in a chair – he’s sitting in a chair watching staring glaring – he’s sitting in a chair and his chest is heaving and he shouts for someone nobody else can see. A machine is attached to his body – an arm is attached his arm is a machine –_

_The man is swallowed up by a metal contraption, his face obscured and he’s screaming and screaming and screaming and screaming –_

Wanda pulls back, and she hears Pietro choking and whimpering. Her hands are wreathed in red, her fingers twitching out of control. She wraps her arms around her brother and draws him in close, until he’s pushing his face into her hair, drawing the comfort that she is trying her best to exude freely.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into the shell of his ear, over and over again, her hand stroking down the back of his neck firmly, soothingly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Pietro gulps in air and tightens his grip on her.

“I didn’t think –” he tries to say but he doesn’t need to. She didn’t think so, either.

“I saw him,” she says, very quietly. “In a room, with another one. When I saw his eyes, I felt fear.”

Pietro leans away, just far enough to wipe his red-rimmed eyes and take in her face properly.

“You were afraid of him?” he asks, licking his chapped lips. He’s so _thin._

Wanda tries to recall the look in those cold blue eyes. The snow-metal-whisky burn in her nose and mouth. She shakes her head.

“No,” she replies. “Not my fear. _His.”_

Pietro wipes his mouth and face with the back of his hand, scrubs his fingers restlessly through his hair.

“Do you think they’re like us?”

Wanda tries once again to recall those scattered fragments she had mistakenly dug into, ripping out roots from a ground she should never have touched. Green eyes, freckly face, a menacing mountain, a harsh whisper in the dark, a knife buried deep in a torso.

“No,” she says again. “I don’t think they’re like us at all.”

She doesn’t know what they are, but then again. What is she anymore? What is Pietro?

“You should go, before someone comes back,” she says, pushing at his chest. “Please, Pietro.”

Pietro’s eyes are wet and fearful, but his hands are steady as he places them on her shoulders, kissing her forehead. There is so much of their mother in him, it is sometimes as if she were right here between them. Wanda tries to push her feelings of safety, peacefulness, all the best parts of what she feels in his presence.

As long as they are together, they will take care of each other. They promised it: to their parents, to their grandfather, to each other.

“I’ll come back,” Pietro says, wiggling his thieved key proudly before slipping back out through the door as silently as he entered it.

Wanda feels, for a brief moment, struck with the eternal terror of loneliness.

But her forehead is damp from his lips, her shoulders warm from his hands. It dissipates, and she is left comforted by the briefest consolation of his visit. He’ll come back. He’ll return. And next time, she’ll be able to help him.

Wanda lifts her hands, and stares at the thin membrane of scarlet that seems to encase her fingers. She takes a deep breath, holds them out, and concentrates on the Newton’s cradle on the end of the shelf. The far left ball lifts, pauses, then swings back, hitting the rest. It continues, without her help, swinging and clicking, and she drifts into the hypnotic rhythm of its repeat, sinking into the memory of those stolen visions tucked safe in her subconscious.

**triskelion, washington d.c.**

**director fury**

Nick Fury was not exactly raised on stories of Captain America, the way he knows many of his peers were, which goes some way to explaining why he’s as easily aggravated by Steve Rogers as he is awestruck. The man can pack a punch and he can stir a storm with a few choice words, but as Nick’s own granddaddy used to tell him: _Nicholas, a man is only as good as his greatest fault; even the best of men cast shadows._

Steve Rogers’ shadow is long indeed, and Nick has been wary of it ever since they unthawed the bastard.

As they sit across the wide desk from each other in Nick’s office, he feels a biting annoyance that is usually saved for a particular teammate of Rogers’. Rogers is wearing a mutinous expression, resolutely turned away from the hologram of the Insight helicarrier suspended between them.

“How many?” Rogers asks.

Nick crosses his arms over his chest, lips pursed.

“Three,” he says, and does not react to Rogers’ pointed grimace.

“Christ,” Rogers scoffs. “Are they operational?”

“Like I said,” Nick reiterates, a click in the back of his teeth and a weight on his shoulders he’s been carrying for years. “Without Stark supporting our mechanics the way we’d hoped he would, it’s taking a little longer than anticipated to get them up and running. But we will, with or without him.”

Rogers bares his teeth like a scrappy dog, and for the briefest of moments Nick thinks he catches a glimpse of the scrawny boy buried behind that wall of muscle. Sometimes, Rogers still holds himself like he’s a ninety pound asthmatic. It’s a useful reminder, Nick can’t help but appreciate, that Rogers isn’t really the man on Coulson’s old collectable cards. Not in his entirety, at least.

“What makes you think he’d listen to me, even if I _wanted _him to help you?”

“Oh, I doubt he’d listen to you,” Nick retorts with no small measure of laughing disdain.

Tony Stark, move on the word of another man? Captain _America, _at that?

If Nick Fury made his plays based on prayers and miracles, maybe, but he knows Stark well enough not to.

“This is just you caring and sharing?” Rogers asked with one dark blond eyebrow raised. Nick almost wishes the history books had been right about those Golden Age sensibilities, because Steve Rogers is one sarcastic son of a bitch when he’s pitching a morality fit.

“I’m nice like that,” Nick retorts with a grim smile of his own. “Consider yourself informed, Captain. Next time I send you on an information retrieval, please assume it is of grave importance and not me making light of your very important schedule.”

The noise Rogers makes is somewhere between a laugh and a jeer, and he stares hard at the helicarrier hologram for another moment before slapping his knees and getting to his feet.

“Always happy to help, Nick,” Rogers says. “But for the record, I think this is one of those times where you’re going to turn out being wrong. Nobody wins a war by finishing it before it starts. All that happens is, you start a war.”

He’s still standing like a small man, and Nick wonders if Rogers even realises it; if his teammates recognise it.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one, Captain Rogers,” Nick replies, and Rogers nods.

At the door, Rogers briefly turns back to look at Nick, his mouth pulled down at the corners like a disappointed doll.

“Romanoff still hasn’t given up on finding Barton, you know. Neither have I.”

The resolve with which he says it; the kind of enviable conviction that is rarely deserved. It makes Nick smile, despite himself. He nods his head respectfully, just the once, and tries not to remember the ratty haired blond boy whose picture showed up on his desk at far too young an age. Those hawkish eyes bruised and knuckles scabbed; Coulson’s promise. _We can bring him in. We don’t have to take him down. I can bring him in. Give me a chance to bring him in._

“Me neither, Steve,” Nick says, and he means it. Rogers seems to believe him, because his expression softens minutely, before he leaves.

Alone in his office, bright with heavy sunshine, Nick commands the computer to open the file of Case 5XP under STRIKE Division. The hologram of the helicarrier is replaced. Clint Barton’s unrelenting eyes stare out at him from the top of the unlocked file.

_inactive < < missing in action_

The words are unforgiving, unforgiveable, burning into Nick’s mind.

The truth is, he hasn’t given up on finding Barton, either. But every day, he feels himself getting a little more doubtful, a little more worried. If they wait too long, how much of Barton will there be left to get back at all?

Nick closes the file, angry yet undefeated. He doesn’t know where Hawkeye is, doesn’t know who has him, or why, or how on earth someone has managed to keep him in one place. But he knows this: he made that man a promise, when he was still a boy. He intends to keep that promise, whatever the cost.

_Be a man of your word, if nothing else, Nicholas, _his granddaddy used to say.

He does his best.

Less than a month later, his pager goes off. He frowns, startled. Pulls a phone from a locked drawer and calls the only number programmed into it.

Four rings, a passcode, an identity confirmation, and then:

“What the hell’s gone wrong now?” he barks down the phone.

He doesn’t like the sigh from the other end.

_“Boss, we’ve got a problem,” _Phil Coulson says, sounding tired, and agitated, and like all the good advice Nick’s been missing. _“You’ve got a rat in the Insight staff. You need to halt everything right now, or someone is going to get very hurt very fast.”_

**london, england**

**steve rogers**

It’s hours into the night, buckets into their pints, when Steve notices Bucky is nowhere to be seen. He hears the sharp, stuttering laugh of Monty Falsworth and glances over his shoulder, expecting to see him still sequestered in a corner bickering over whiskies with Buck, only –

Morita catches his gaze and smiles cheerfully, raising his glass in cheers. Steve raises his own automatically, taking a tasteless sip as he scans the room for that most familiar profile, sloped shoulders, dark hair, a rusty wry chuckle. Nothing.

“Problem, Cap?”

Steve turns to Dum Dum, who’s watching him carefully. His cheeks are ruddy from his beers, his moustache damp and his forehead shiny. There’s a bubbling, gleeful amusement about Dum Dum Dugan, that makes Steve think of Brooklyn.

“Seen Barnes?” Steve asks, as casually as possible. Dum Dum gives no outward sign of suspicion, giving the room a turn of his eyes as well before frowning.

“Damnable fool, musta gone looking for fresh air. Ain’t nothing fresh about this town no more.”

Dum Dum makes more token grumbling as he nods towards the open door of the pub they’ve been draining of its finest, and Steve tips the last of his drink back, scrubbing his face with his knuckles.

“I’m gonna check,” Steve says, and he _knows _that doesn’t sound casual, but Dum Dum won’t fault him for it. He’s long used to Bucky’s personal brand of rank already; drill sergeant by way of Winnie Barnes, more like. Becca would have a field day, seeing her brother cluck over cuts and bruises the way he does his commandos.

A smile steals over Steve’s face, despite his worry, as he retreats to the overdrawn night of war-torn, wintry London.

There are more figures out here, though it isn’t half so loud and crowded. A woman is standing close in a uniformed embrace, her eyes full of more stars than can be counted in the cloudy sky and her smile is bright on her face as she tilts it up to the man cushioned between her and the wall.

Steve ducks around them quickly, drawn towards the quietness of the other end of the street. The clack of footsteps disappearing, the rumble of a vehicle. The cloud of smoke pouring out from an alley –

“Jesus, can’t a man get four seconds’a peace,” Bucky snarls as he backs down the brick walled snicket. Steve stays on the street, looking inwards.

Bucky’s biting the end of his cigarette too hard, crushing it, the speck of light from it glowing and dying in sparks. His face is drawn, and pale, and when he reaches up to take the roll from his mouth, his fingers are close to unsteady.

“Bucky, it’s me,” Steve says, a little stupid, a lot worried, and Bucky’s nose scrunches up, displeased.

“Whoop de fucking do, pal,” he mutters darkly, taking a suck of his cigarette and trying to force it to keep alight. His eyes are shiny and worn through with emotions Steve can’t decipher.

“Buck,” Steve says again, taking a step closer and his heart pinches up inside him when Bucky flinches back _again. _“Buck, it’s just me. What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothin’,” Bucky retorts, too quickly, too angrily, too everything for the lie of it. He rips the cigarette viciously from his teeth and tosses it aside, his hands trapping between his head and his shirt as he flexes his fingers and does a disoriented half-turn, remembering too late he’s backed himself into an alley like a stray, and has nowhere to go.

Steve moves closer, ignoring the wild glare of Bucky’s eyes, ignoring the panicked glance he throws over his shoulder as if afraid someone else with perfect super-sight will look down this dark alley and see them.

“OK,” Steve says.

_“No,” _Bucky replies, shaking his head. “No, it’s, it’s not fuckin’. Fuckin’.”

Whatever isn’t ok, it gets trapped between them as Steve takes three solid strides, hears the _thunk _of Bucky’s head hitting the wall behind him, the raspy intake of his breath as he closes his eyes, wincing. The night swells and expands as the universe shrinks, and there is only Bucky’s pink mouth and damp eyes, shining.

“OK,” Steve says again. “You don’t have to. It’s OK.”

Bucky’s expression is frantic, and furious, but he gentles like a shy horse in Steve’s grip as he takes hold of his wrists, drawing them to his chest, safely nestled between their bodies. Bucky’s breaths are loud as his eyes, pushing rapidly against Steve’s hands as he holds Bucky’s rough knuckles to his chest.

“Ice that temper, Barnes,” he says with a troubled smile that makes Bucky snort, head ducked down as he shakes the demons out of his head. _Ice that temper, Rogers, _he used to say, when Steve was spoiling for a fight that Buck was unwilling to give him. He’d say it with a grin befitting the hell fire spitting out of Steve’s growling mouth and Steve always hated it, always riled him up so much further, which was maybe the point.

Bucky mumbles something too incoherent even for Steve’s fluency in Bucky-code, and when he leans forward the top of his head butts against Steve’s throat with catlike, hostile affection.

“What was that?” Steve asks, mouth full of hair. Bucky smells of cigarettes and tangy whiskey and every home Steve’s ever known.

“She’s a firecracker,” Bucky mutters to their feet, toe to toe, dancing in their stillness. “Your Agent Carter.”

There’s no way Bucky doesn’t feel Steve stiffen, surprised by his words. For a moment, the needle sharp accusation pierces through whatever gaps separate them. Steve grimaces, his mouth pressed into the top of Bucky’s head, as if he might reach right into his thoughts.

“She isn’t _my _Agent Carter, Buck,” he says, very cautiously.

Bucky raises his head, slowly, so as not to bang into Steve’s face. His eyes are blue and grey and purple, wet as rain, and his smile is perfect. Steve knows the shape of that smile pressed against his own, the exact weight and warmth of it, the rough stubble, the damp lips. There’s no jealousy, or anger, in the melancholy way Bucky extracts a hand from Steve’s grip and places it tenderly on his cheek, thumb dragging down to the corner of his mouth.

“Ain’t you precious,” Bucky says, teasing and pleased and if Steve said _boo _right now he thinks Bucky would fold like a paper doll in his hands.

“Buck,” Steve says, trying to pull them back on track, retaking Bucky’s hand and holding it tight. He’s feverishly warm, despite lacking any kind of coat. “Buck, wait. Did Peggy say something to you? Should I talk to –”

“Christ in _Heaven!” _Bucky cries, far too loudly, and they flinch a glance but the alleyway is as deserted as it’s always been, and Bucky’s still laughing derisively, a token tug to indicate he wants released but he’s going to have to try a lot harder than that to make Steve let go of him. “Give a guy a star-spangled suit and he starts thinking the whole world revolves around him!”

A tear escapes Bucky’s eye, rolling over the apple of his cheek and maybe he doesn’t notice it but Steve can’t stop staring at it, the glistening line it leaves behind on Bucky’s ashen face. It hurts, Steve can feel it running over his own skin, hot as blood.

“Not everything’s about you, you know, Stevie,” Bucky says, and he wrenches out of Steve’s grasp to slap his cheek lightly, the way he did when he was still just Bucky, and Steve was still just Steve.

“Buck, what did Peggy say to you?” Steve asks, grabbing Bucky’s upper arms instead. Bucky’s shaking his head again, mouth open in that denial-smile of his, the way he used to throw his little sister’s insults back at them behind their Ma’s back. “Bucky.”

“Jesus, Stevie, can’t a man have a smoke and a sulk in private, these days? I didn’t ask you to come out here, you know.”

The words pack a mighty punch. Steve pulls back, suddenly feeling prickly and hurt all over, a flush of embarrassment he’s never felt around Bucky before. Never been so outright _rejected _by Bucky, before. Never thought there’d be a day where Bucky didn’t want him around.

He nods, drawing away as he tries to plug up the leaking faucet wounds Bucky’s inadvertently left in him.

“OK, I, I guess.”

Steve fumbles for a response that isn’t too self-pitying, and considers just turning around and walking away. Bucky’s right, he hadn’t _asked _Steve to come looking for him. It had just been – instinct, looking for Bucky, making sure he’s OK.

“Fuck,” Bucky mumbles, and his fingers feebly tug at Steve’s sleeve, as if he daren’t quite grab hold. “M’sorry. Steve, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean – I’m just tired. Past few weeks have caught up with me, I think. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Steve eyes Bucky sceptically, searching for a lie in his face. His smile has disappeared, but so has that alarming tear-verge lingering on his eyelashes. When his mouth curls around whatever else he wants to add to his apology, Steve glances down at it, and thinks about kissing him; an absent, haphazard thought. Steve thinks about kissing Bucky too often for it to be a distraction every time.

“What did she say?” he asks again, instead of doling out forgiveness.

It’s always there, between them, anyway.

Bucky gives an impertinent shrug, looking uncomfortable.

“Just wanted to talk about the interrogation. I’ve got to report to Phillips in the morning.”

“We’re not –”

“Just me, Stevie,” Bucky says, and Steve has a thousand things to say to that, but they’re all so trite, so petty, so redundant. Bucky’s staring at his hand, which is hooked into Steve’s sleeve, childlike, lost, and maybe he’s seeing something that isn’t there, spots that won’t rub away so easy in Bucky’s mind, so Steve plucks his fingers away, holds those warm, rough knuckles to his mouth and kisses each one.

Bucky’s breath stutters, trapped in his chest, and his eyes dart around the alley wildly, frightened and hopeful and wary and wonderful.

For a moment, it looks like Bucky’s going to say something, perhaps confess what’s really bothering him, because it would take more than a few clipped words from anyone, even Margaret Carter, to get such a rise out of the likes of Bucky Barnes. Only, he seems to change his mind, and he surges forwards, a kiss like a concussion pressed hard onto Steve’s mouth, so quick he barely has a chance to respond before Bucky’s pulling back again, looking soft and shy.

“What you gotta get so tall for, huh?” Bucky teases, and his fingers run ragged in Steve’s hair, tugging it out of place until Steve bats him away, chuckling. “Come on, you big lug. Before Jackie sends out a search party.”

He starts walking back down the alley, and Steve trails after him, far enough away he can inspect his sloping gait. His leg seems better, or maybe it’s just the alcohol, numbing him down. He’s already lost his limp.

“He doesn’t like it when you call him Jackie,” Steve reminds Bucky, who lets out a deliberate cackle.

_“Monsieur Jackie!” _he calls out in the most exaggerated French accent he can manage. “I’ll stop calling him Jackie when he stops calling me _Buchanan.”_

Steve grins, staring at the retreating back of Bucky’s head as he strolls back towards the lights and sounds spilling out of the tavern up the road.

“That’ll never happen,” he mumbles under his breath.

Bucky’s eyes, shiny blue, beautiful, glancing over his shoulder. Prettiest damn face Steve ever saw, even without that heaven blessed smile. Steve is struck in the space between his lungs with how goddamn much he loves this man. Imagines shouting it, down the street, into the night. Dangerous and true.

Longing aches inside him, like a broken tooth, as Bucky ducks back through the doorway inside, a smile plastered over his face that Steve recognises from a hundred USO stages. Steve follows him inside, wearing a smile of his own, too.

**avengers tower, new york city**

**iron man**

_“Sir, Agent Romanoff has just entered the elevator. She will be with you in approximately four minutes.”_

“Excellent!” Tony replies, instead of something a little saltier that will invite comment from JARVIS, who has taken an odd liking to their very own Black Widow. It’s probably nothing that can’t be debugged. Tony isn’t worried. Well, Tony isn’t worried about JARVIS, at least. “JARVIS, do you have her giftbag?”

_“At the ready, Sir,” _JARVIS replies, and the east wall screens flip sequentially from the components for Mark Forty-Three to the fully decrypted files he had been presented with by an irate, stone-faced Natasha Romanoff some months ago.

He had done his utmost not to be too smug about the indomitable Black Widow asking for little ol’ _Iron Man’s _help on a pet project, but, well. He’s never written modesty in his repertoire.

“Hey, Dummy,” Tony says, clicking his fingers at the nearest bot, who swivels eagerly around. “Clean this up, will you? We’ve got company. No cute stuff, OK?”

Dummy hurries towards the various tools scattered across the work surface, whirring and clicking proudly while Tony wipes down his hands and picks up the mug that still has the most coffee in it. He pauses for all of a second with it raised to his lips, but JARVIS doesn’t intervene, which means it probably hasn’t been inadvertently poisoned with battery acid some time in the past hour.

It’s cold, though, and he grimaces, just in time for a familiar face to appear at the sliding glass doors.

“Agent Romanoff,” Tony announces with all the energy of a race track commentator. “To what do we owe this inestimable treat of your company?”

Natasha’s eyes glance over his shoulder, to the wall of information on display.

“I thought I vetoed the name Project WINNIPEG?” she asks with a tiny curl of a smile, swinging up to sit on the worktop near Dummy, who greets her with traitorous enthusiasm.

“Have you ever been to Winnipeg?” Tony demands, taking another gulp of his cold coffee. When Natasha shakes her head, he tosses her a dramatic eyeroll. “Then you can’t possibly understand how perfect a name it is. Project WINNIPEG has been developing piece by piece for…”

_“Seven hundred and twenty-two days,” _JARVIS supplies promptly.

Tony raises a gesturing hand, as if to say _There you go, _smiling brightly. Despite his reservations, which remain stacked high around him on all sides, Tony has decided he likes Natasha Romanoff a whole lot – creepy, duplicitous assassin vibes aside. It’s helped, perhaps at first, that Pep likes her, too. More than once, he’s been able to persuade Pepper not to worry so much about this ordeal or that excursion, purely on the basis that their dear Agent Romanoff will be there, too.

Maybe it’s a redhead thing.

“Did you find anything?” Natasha asks.

Tony nearly, _nearly, _scoffs.

“Oh, you mean did I manage to extract any useful information from the twelve pages of encrypted bullshit you so graciously gave to me? Having had the _gall _to pretend you didn’t have hundreds more at your disposal you just happened to forget to hand over?”

OK, so Tony _scoffs. _He’s annoyed. He’s allowed to scoff when he’s annoyed and it’s a legitimate grievance, like evidence of being withheld information from a teammate.

“I gave you the relevant pages, Tony. I’m not just going to hand you hundreds of top secret MI6 files for your own amusement.”

“As a concerned citizen –”

“It’s pronounced _curious.”_

“A _concerned, citizen,” _Tony reiterates boldly, sweeping around the table to indicate the bluish files humming with life. “It’s my job to gather all the information.”

“And what information did you gather?” Natasha asks very sweetly, making her way to the coffee machine in the corner, which JARVIS has devilishly restarted for her. That AI is definitely due a debugging.

“Carlotta Cornwell, the woman you wanted finding?” Tony says, deliberately not referring to her as _the mole _in the hope of riling Natasha up. Unfortunately, she’s too cucumber cool for such easy bait. She’s not even looking up from her coffee as she sips it. “She doesn’t exist.”

_That _gets Natasha’s attention.

Her eyes flash up, coffee forgotten as she strides closer. Her hair, neatly pinned back, swishes behind her in a ponytail that’s much happier than her face.

“Explain,” she says without preamble, and Tony doesn’t blame her, mostly because that’s exactly the reaction he had been aiming for. He does so enjoy explaining things, after all.

“Someone has scrubbed her clean from every file, database, server and mailing list that JARVIS can feasibly access. Whoever Carlotta Cornwell is, she has some very clever friends. The only thing we managed to pull that might – and I cannot stress the word _might _heavily enough here – _might _be Cornwell, is this.”

Tony reaches up to the nearest vertical panel and swipes his hand to the right, producing a black and white CCTV camera still taken from a T-junction in a road.

“This was taken from a road cam not far off the military base where the chemical weapons nearly got introduced at high speed to the residents of all of Shropshire – definitely, too quaint a name to be anywhere other than England, might I add. Another camera catches the car leaving the access road the same night as the incident, but this is the only one that shows the driver’s face.”

The driver, a young woman with a handsome, high cheek-boned face and sharply cut set of bangs over her forehead, is slender and scowling. Her hands are gripping her steering wheel very tight. It’s not a perfect image, but her features are fairly clear. Tony’s had them memorised for a while, now.

Natasha’s eyes are narrow, and she’s staring at the woman with such scrutiny Tony’s a little worried the wall behind the photo might catch fire.

“You know her?” he asks.

For a moment, Natasha’s mouth hangs open in a taunt of an almost-reply. Then: “No.”

Tony doesn’t need to see her face to sense her disappointment, and is torn between frustration and an instinctive glee at Natasha Romanoff showing a modicum of genuine emotion in front of him. This is a real winner of a day, if only for the very pettiest of reasons.

“Well, the fact I can’t find a single mention of Ms Cornwell anywhere, and JARVIS has run this shot through every branch of facial recognition he can get his grabby, virtual-reality hands on to no avail, makes me think we are looking at the only visual evidence of one Carlotta Cornwell of Mission Impossible Six.”

“That’s not what it stands for.”

“Don’t get personal,” Tony retorts, sinking the last of his coffee and heading for a refill while Natasha peruses his findings on the screens. “So, you want to see the other toys you asked for? I might say, you put in quite the order. I’m a busy man, you know, Widow.”

“JARVIS?” Natasha asks, without so much as pretending to pay attention to Tony.

Before Tony can intervene, JARVIS gives up the goods with all the dignity of a dog rolling to show its belly for better scratches. Tony gives the screen panels his hardest glare as they flip over to the information he’d had JARVIS accumulate.

_“I have found two primary projects matching your description, Agent Romanoff,” _JARVIS is saying, in a voice dangerously close to _smarmy. _The British accent doesn’t help at all, but Tony only has himself to blame there. _“Plus a further four secondaries that partially match.”_

“Give us the primaries, J,” Tony says, just to feel more involved, and he absolutely does not appreciate the wry _Certainly, Sir, _JARVIS offers him. Natasha’s eyes brighten with amusement, and it’s a sight almost worth the aggravation of an AI in need of debugging.

As JARVIS produces the files on the screens, complete with holographic versions of the weaponry in question, Tony walks around to stand closer to Natasha, who is reading the information so quickly she can’t possibly be catching all the words.

“I give you the _Osprey,” _he says with a flourish, indicating the downright disgracefully sleek design he’d built for the air force more than ten years ago now, when building things for the air force was something he still eagerly did.

Natasha, who clearly has absolutely zero appreciation for the masterpiece of engineering that was the Osprey 450, judging by the passing look she gives it, says: “And the other one?”

Tony waves the pretty, pretty machine away, and instead brings up the second option.

“Not my design, so I don’t have all the ins and outs,” he says. “We just sold a few of the more complex components to the air force and they built the things themselves. JARVIS managed to dig out the original designs and some background information on the –”

“This,” Natasha says immediately, taking in the projected rendering of a generic man-shape wearing the suit. “I need everything JARVIS can gather on –” she glances at the corner of the screen, “the EXO-7 FALCON project. Specifically personnel files, if at all possible.”

Tony takes a lengthy gulp of his coffee, to hide his outright concern for the manic look on Natasha’s face. It’s not that he doesn’t _trust _her, per say. It’s just – well. He doesn’t know how much he trusts her, yet.

“I need more than that, Romanoff,” he says with no small measure of expectation. “Why do you want me to go rummaging around in pararescue personnel?”

Because wherever JARVIS goes, Tony is right there with him, and there are no lines he is hardwired not to cross, but there are areas close enough to Rhodey’s inner circle that he knows better than to stride into without warning. Granted, Rhodey was a million miles away from whatever the Falcon gang got up to, but he’d supervised the Ospreys himself, and there is no way Tony is handing over Rhodey’s personal files to anybody, not even Natasha Romanoff.

Natasha hops back up onto the metal work surface near Dummy, who swivels closer to perch beside her.

“I talked to Pepper,” she says, and while the confession is unexpected, the actual fact of it is not.

“I know,” Tony says with a tight look of accusation that he feels twisting his mouth. “She and I talk, occasionally, too.”

Natasha gives him a sideways nod of rare acquiescence.

“She said she saw an angel, Tony,” Natasha says, like it’s a fact that hasn’t been plaguing Tony’s absent thoughts for months now. Like he hasn’t woken up to see Pepper’s hands grasping the sheets too tight, sweat shiny on her forehead and mouth clamped tight as she curls up into herself –

“She saw a lot of things,” he says, too sharply, too obviously. He turns away to avoid whatever is written in Natasha’s face.

“Tony,” Natasha says again – _God, _he hates the way she says his name.

He turns nonetheless, and looks to where she’s gesturing, to the screen with the Falcon suit, those wings extended, almost like an –

“Holy shit,” he says, his irritation forgotten as he looks back at Natasha Romanoff’s hungry face. “You think? You _think?”_

Natasha purses her lips and drinks her coffee.

“I _think _I’m interested in the personnel files of everybody involved in EXO-7 FALCON.”

“Why?” Tony asks. Then, because quite frankly if Natasha’s been sitting on this for months while Pepper’s been waking up choking on phantom smoke, he’s going to have a damn few things to say about it: “Why now?”

He sees her flickering reluctance, the shift of her weight as Dummy sidles up in search of more tasks to show off over. Natasha very nearly denies all knowledge, he’s sure of it. Only, then.

“SHIELD is compromised,” she says.

Absurdly, wildly, bewilderingly, Tony has the sudden thought that this might be the single most desperate display of trust Natasha has ever shown him. More so than handing over some dubiously claimed secret spy documents. More so than asking him to search high and low for a six year old girl and her dad in the barest hope they’ll lead her to Barton. This, right here, is the epitome of trust, and it feels impossibly fragile in Tony’s fickle, clumsy grip.

A lump swells like pebbles in his throat.

“A few weeks ago, a mission went sideways. There’s only one voice recording of what happened, and we don’t know what it is. But before he dies, one of the agents can be heard saying something about a _bird.”_

Their eyes are, of course, drawn straight back to the EXO-7 file.

“I have a few more leads to chase up, but this is important, Tony. Steve and I are too involved in SHIELD to do much digging ourselves. We need your help.”

This seems like an ill opportunity to gloat, but the urge is there all the same.

“Captain Bubble Butt’s on board?” he asks with forced raised eyebrows. “Teacher’s Pet is sticking it to the man. I like it.”

“You can accuse Steve Rogers of a lot of things, Stark,” Natasha says dryly. “But you cannot accuse him of ever being a teacher’s pet.”

It’s nice, this warmth, this familiarity. Tony forgets, sometimes for days or weeks at a time, that he’s really part of a team much bigger than himself. Being reminded of it feels like abruptly reaching a mountain’s summit, having forgotten he would ever reach it in his uphill climb. A release of breath, exhaustion and victory rolled up into one.

“He _is _oddly un-wholesome, isn’t he?” Tony muses, before shutting down all the screens in the lab with a wipe of his hands. “JARVIS, give me the lowdown on personnel, past and present, of EXO-7 FALCON. Everything you can dig out, buddy.”

_“Retrieving and compiling relevant data now, Sir.”_

“Might be a few days, the military are awfully precious about their data,” Tony says as he gestures Natasha towards the door that leads back out of the workshop. She never seems wholly enthused to be here, truth be told, despite her budding friendship with the bots, and she moves happily as directed out towards the elevator. “I’ll have JARVIS send you everything express. Is spangle-pants coming over for a sleepover? We can stay up late and drink cocoa and gossip about boys.”

Natasha does a weird thing with her mouth that looks a hell of a lot like a smile.

“There’s something else I want to talk to you about,” she says, but the surely-not-a-smile is probably an acceptance of the invitation.

“Oh, goodie,” Tony says, as the elevator doors slide open, and it’s supposed to come out sarcastic but it traitorously sounds quite the opposite. “Take us to wherever food can be found, J,” he says, and the elevator starts climbing upwards.

When he looks to his left, Natasha’s eyes are on him. Pale as sunlight and just as warm, that smile on her face like she means it. Tony feels an unwelcome heat in his cheeks, that he justifiably ignores, turning away from that intrusively lovely face.

Natasha lets out a breathy sigh of amusement.

“What happened in Winnipeg?” she asks, and Tony bursts out laughing, despite his very best efforts to keep it contained.

**fortress**

**hawk**

The water is freezing, and smells of the old mains pipes it blasts from. When the metal plates in his head get cold, it radiates through the rest of his skull, pulsing painfully. The hinges in his back rub into the knits of his skin, so he stands very still, letting the water hit and spray, mingling with the blood and sweat and grime that pools at his bare feet.

To his left, he can see the Soldier stooped over, water hitting the back of his head, his hair soaked and hiding his face from view. Blood is still streaking down his side from the gash below his ribs.

The Hawk keeps his face buried in the water spray, eyes pushing to the side to watch the Soldier shift in increments, stretching the wound and closing it in turn, reddish water running in rivulets down his side. Cautiously, the Soldier’s right hand lifts, fingers searching as if to prod tentatively at the open slash.

_BANG!_

Without warning, the guard on watch shoots, and a rubber bullet hits the offending hand hard enough for the Soldier to hiss, wrenching his fingers away from the injury and returning obediently to his side to let the water work. The Hawk flinches, eyes forward to the wall as the icy water seizes his head, and muscles, and spine. There’s a clattering of voices from outside, and the guard shouts back that everything is _Just fine, _and the Hawk waits for the water to shut off, which it does only a few moments later.

The Hawk stands, waiting.

_“Soldat,” _the guard says with a twinging sneer, and the glances to his left just far enough to meet the Soldier’s eyes as he turns around. Blue steel, hollow, the most attentive eyes in the world, what little of it the Hawk inhabits.

Dry cloth hits the back of the Hawk’s head.

“Get dressed, Jastrząb,” the guard says, as the Soldier walks out of the Hawk’s line of sight.

The Hawk turns, picking up the trousers that are crumpled in the disappearing puddle of water at his feet. He watches the Soldier’s bruised back, the limp in his gait. The guard, a nameless, unfamiliar face, notices the Hawk’s swerved attention, and smirks.

“This is what happens when you don’t catch things like you’re supposed to, Jastrząb,” he says, before slapping the Soldier’s upper back with an open palm, right over the darkest of the slowly fading bruises.

The Soldier doesn’t react, but the Hawk feels a clench in his gut anyway, as if it had been another rubber bullet.

“Wait here,” the guard says sternly, needlessly, as the Hawk pulls the trousers on.

The guard and the Soldier vanish out of the door, and a second guard – _Forster, _early-forties, bad temper, old elbow injury – enters, his arms folded crossly over his chest. He looks the Hawk up and down with some disdain, but he doesn’t withdraw a weapon, so he must be a in a good mood today.

The Hawk stands, and waits, and watches nothing in particular, listening to the muffled voices outside the door that are no longer obstructed by the hissing splatter of running water.

_“Prep it for cryo. Transport’s going to be a nightmare without Rumlow and his boys. What the fuck is he playing at?”_

_“He goes where he’s told. We’ll be fine. It’s feeling too sorry for itself to put up a fight. It really doesn’t like heights, does it?”_

_“Well, not when it’s falling from them. Screamed fucking murder, the first time. That was nothing. And the other one grabbed it eventually. Come on.”_

_“What about the leg? Otto said it’s probably broken. Can we put it in cryo with a broken leg?”_

_“Not ideal, but they can rebreak it when they get it out on the other end. Better off risking it if it means we can get it down while it’s docile.”_

_“It’s always docile.”_

_“Oh, you poor bastard. You didn’t see what it did to Rollins last year, did you?”_

_“I thought that was all hearsay.”_

_“Trust me, it was not hearsay. The thing had hold of his large intestines before we could tranq it.”_

_“Jesus. He OK?”_

_“Eventually. Pretty fucking wary of the Asset now, though. Don’t blame him.”_

_“Alright, let’s prep it for cryo. Soldat. With me.”_

Once they are out of earshot, the Hawk dares a glance at Forster, who isn’t paying attention to anything much at all. Water trickles from the Hawk’s hairline, down his face and neck, and when he reaches up to wipe it away, Forster throws him a reproachful, impotent glare.

Time passes, the inconvenient, inconsequential way time passes between orders. Seconds and hours the same, interchangeable.

Until, when the water has dried from the Hawk’s skin, and Forster has shifted his weight thirteen times, a face leans into the open doorway. Kapanen, looking disgruntled.

“Any time you feel like doing some _work, _Forster,” he says sharply. “Hawk, with me.”

The Hawk walks towards Kapanen, past Forster’s sulky grimace, following the doctor through the chilly hallways barefoot, with his wings tucked as close to his back as he can manage, the cool plates of metal sliding left and right with every step. The air is damp, oppressive and cold. He follows Kapanen through a maze of turns, down several flights of winding stairs, before he’s led into an almost entirely bare room.

“Kneel,” Kapanen says, and the Hawk does, eyes forward, anticipating the hood.

It doesn’t come, though. Kapanen’s fingers brush the back of his neck, there’s a rush of air from the door opening and closing again, and then the Hawk is alone. He takes a long, slow breath.

His ribs are sore, and his fingers are still tender from the way they’d grappled to keep hold of the Soldier after he’d been flung off the ledge by that explosion. The chill from the plates in his head has eased a little as his hair dries.

Time passes, the inconvenient, inconsequential way time passes between orders. Seconds and hours the same, interchangeable.

The door opens again, and the Hawk realises his eyes are closed. In the split second before opening them, he has the sudden realisation that the footsteps of the person entering are too light to be Kapanen, or Forster, or anyone that the Hawk recognises.

He looks up, and sees a young woman standing with her back to the closed door. Her hair is autumnal, like her eyes, and her face is fey and pretty. She’s wearing a smile that looks, not happy, but afraid. Familiarity that the Hawk can’t place stirs in his gut. He says nothing.

“Hello,” the young woman greets, taking a steady step closer. “I’m Wanda.”

People don’t introduce themselves to the Hawk. Someone hasn’t told her how things work around here.

Wanda’s voice is soft, her accent prominent, vaguely recognisable. She’s wearing a thin grey sweater and dark sweatpants. Her feet are badly laced up in boots that look much too big for her. She’s apprehensive, eyes darting around the room and hands tucked into his abdomen like she’s shielding something in them.

When she is near enough, she bends to one knee on the floor, half-beside the Hawk, and his eyes track her movements.

“We’ve – met, in a way,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

This is an odd thing to say, all of it, especially the apology. Her cupped hand open, and there’s a strange aura tingling around her fingertips. A red, misty light. She holds her fingers away from her, as if she is holding fire in her hand.

“I sensed you, a while ago. Before I could control it. And I saw you.”

Still, she doesn’t ask anything of the Hawk, so the Hawk does not respond. He is not sure if she is like Kapanen, or Forster, or Halford, or somebody else, perhaps Manera, or Rumlow. He does not know what she expects, or requires. He’ll have to wait as long as he can, to find out.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

The Hawk blinks, and something not neutral mars his face. He tries to recover, but the girl’s eyes widen considerably. Her hand uncurl further, the red mist furling between her fingers delicately. It reminds him of –

_Reminds?_

“May I?” she asks, gesturing towards the Hawk’s head.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he replies, and it’s a realisation that arrives in his head simultaneously with his mouth.

Wanda’s smile never quite fades from her face. She shakes her head, and the Hawk feels an unwelcome, almost uncontrollable urge to smile back.

“May I?” she asks again.

The Hawk nods, unsure what it is she wants, but she can have it, have any of it. She has the kindest smile he’s ever seen. His hands still hurt.

Wanda’s fingers hover half an inch from the Hawk’s temples, the scarlet curls of smoke unfolding out and around his face. Her tongue pokes out from between her teeth in concentration, a dimple of a frown in her forehead that deepens as the redness starts to invade the Hawk’s peripheral vision, like dizzy stars stealing over his eyes. One moment he is kneeling on the floor of the room with Wanda’s nice smile and the next –

_“DON’T YOU DARE FUCKING DIE ON ME BARTON I SWEAR TO GOD CLINT PLEASE CLINT WAKE UP WAKE UP FUCKING WAKE UP CLINT FUCKING –”_

The woman’s face is violent, pale and bloodied and bruised and pressed right up against his own cheek and the Hawk yells out as his arms extend to grab hold of her and keep her keep her there keep her safe the Hawk can’t reach her she’s afraid and he is too and he –

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Wanda’s whispering harshly, her hands raised in placation, in surrender, gentle like approaching a horse that’s bucking hard like the ones in the stable behind the –

What?

“Are you OK?” she asks as the Hawk’s breaths shred through him, and he falls back to sitting on his heels on the floor, his sore fingers clenched tight into fists by his sides. There’s a muscular ache in his back – Wanda’s eyes are roaming up above his shoulders – the wings have opened up with the ferocity of his instinct.

It’s an awkward fumble, tucking them back in. Wanda’s hands reach out, but never quite touch them, and the Hawk is glad though he makes no move to stop her. He’s not sure he could stop her doing anything at all.

“I’m sorry if I frightened you,” she says, and the Hawk isn’t sure what she means, but he licks his lips and sits up taller again on his knees. Wanda matches him, tucking the balls of her feet under her to rise up higher. She’s willowy and youthful. _Sweet kid, _someone might say. (He might say?) “I was just trying to find – you. I shouldn’t have tried so hard. I’m sorry.”

“I’m here,” the Hawk says, and he is perhaps even more surprised by his own voice than Wanda is.

She gasps, leaning back with her mouth open and her eyelashes fluttering. Her faint smile re-deepens on her face, delighted, a darling, a sweet kid.

“Yes, you are,” she says with a soft chuckle. “You can talk?”

“Yes,” the Hawk replies. That has never been in question. Only whether or not he _should _talk. Usually, when he tries, the hood gets brought out. He doesn’t know if Wanda knows about the hood or not. If she’s not supposed to be here, she probably doesn’t know.

Wanda nods, glancing nervously at the door and back again.

When the Hawk looks to the side, still trying to make sense of the rattling red of her fingertips, Wanda releases a small gasp of surprise, dragging his attention back to her. She lifts a hand towards his throat, and the Hawk shrinks away as far as he dares.

“Your neck,” she says, very slowly, even quieter. Can I see it?

The Hawk frowns confused, but at her gesture he turns back to the side as she asks, her fingers lightly tracking the back of his neck. The top ridge of his outer spine. The smooth skin. The hard, crystal lump –

“So that’s how they do it,” she says out loud, and the Hawk turns at her half-query of intrigue.

Wanda smiles at him, sweet, soft, small.

“Do you mind if I try again?” she asks, waggling her fingers playfully. “I promise to be careful.”

The Hawk isn’t sure what she wants him to say, so he nods instead, which is the right answer because she smiles again, that nice, sweet kid smile.

Wanda puts her hands closer to his face this time, leaning in. She must wash in the same icy water that he was hosed down with, because she smells of that chemical-metal smell.

“I’ll go slowly,” she says, her warm skin almost touching his, and then –

_“Did it hurt?” the Soldier asks, he’s close, eye wide and wet and blue. Worried. His hand digging too hard into the Hawk’s ribs but he caught him, he caught him, the wings are savagely buried into the concrete and the Hawk’s spine is screaming._

_He reaches toward –_

_“Oh, Hawkeye,” the man says with a close up leer of glee, and his fingernail touching his lower lashes, bending just close enough that maybe he’s going to scratch the Hawk’s eye out. “_ _I’d tell you it’s nothing personal, but the truth is, I’m really going to enjoy this.”_

_The Hawk rears back, aches, bruises, exhausted, that face, he knows that face, that –_

_“You have heart.”_

“OK, OK, I’ve stopped,” Wanda says, retreating again as the Hawk’s breaths start to pick up speed. He gulps a lungful of oxygen and blinks rapidly. He can hear his heartbeat, feel it thrumming in his chest and limbs, in his throat. He watches Wanda and she watches him right back, caught in static feedback from each other as they share wide-eyed looks of misunderstanding. “Hawkeye?”

The Hawk blinks.

That’s not right.

Why does it sit so easily in his bones?

Before he can respond in any meaningful way, Wanda’s eyes widen. She inhales quickly, her body turning instinctively just as the Hawk hears it, too – the footsteps, the weight of them, the pattern of them. He reaches out to push Wanda – away? Behind him? He’ not sure, and before he can the door swings open and –

“Jumalauta!” Kapanen snarls, shoving the door open the rest of the way hard and advancing on the kneeling pair. The Hawk leans forward, he’s in front of her, she’s safe from harm, safe from the hand that Kapanen raises high to –

_CRACK!_

The backhand flings the Hawk sideways, wings clanging on the ground and Wanda lets out a cry of alarm, he hears her backing away as Kapanen roars at her in rapid Finnish. A foot connects with the Hawk’s shin hard, a steel cap, and he brings his legs inwards as he tries to roll back up.

“DOWN!” Kapanen shouts, mid-sentence, pointing a lethal finger at the Hawk, and the Hawk’s forehead touches the floor in response.

Wanda shouts something – a plea, unfamiliar vowels but the tone is always the same, in every language. She’s reaching out with both hands for Kapanen, and he’s calling for guards who are spilling in as if through the very walls of the room, crowding them.

The Hawk’s blood is pounding in his ears, he tries to look for Wanda’s smile, Kapanen’s fist, anything familiar but there are only –

Hands, hands taking his arms, dragging him upright, dragging him forwards. Wanda is crying out for help, for a boy’s name, there’s a sickly pale pink mist skimming between them, tendrils of her magic leaking over them but it’s diluted, perhaps by her tears, by her panic.

The Hawk tries to stumble upright, manages a few steps before his weight re-buckles and he wonders where the Soldier is and he wonders about that face with those green eyes that didn’t belong to Halford and he –

Staggers inside the next room when he’s shoved, headfirst, sprawling on the floor and Wanda follows in after. Rolls on the ground with her hair spilling in loose knots over her face. She pushes up onto her elbows, looking at him, tear stricken. A man is shouting at her – a doctor, lab coat and all, he knows her, is berating her.

Kapanen is roaring obscenities as the Hawk is lifted up with coaxing force into a chair –

Into the _chair. _The Hawk jerks instinctively, as the metal clamps over his limbs. He’s face down, stretched out on the extended chair and the wings are wired up, the electricity pouring into his nerve endings, fiery as the heatless flames licking out of the girl’s hands, Wanda, crying for somebody that isn’t anywhere to be found –

The light is blue, and white, and steel, and –

The Hawk wakes up, ready to comply.

**jarvis | decryptx / > ATTACHMENT >>**

**Re: EXO-7 FALCON**

**widow-eyes-only**

**Project WINNIPEG Enclosed > Notable Exemptions > chronologically-listed-by-departure**

  * Colonel Thomas P. Hampson  
S.A.F. | Pararescue  
Status: Retired  
Founding operational leader  
_dfile1  
  
_
  * Technical Sergeant Donald F. S. Fisher  
S.A.F. | Pararescue  
Status: Honorable Discharge  
Supporting technician and flight supervisor  
_dfile2  
  
_
  * Second Lieutenant Alice E. Dexter  
S.A.F. | Pararescue  
Status: Honorable Discharge  
Flight specialist  
_dfile3  
  
_
  * Second Lieutenant Bradley N. Fuller  
S.A.F. | Pararescue  
Status: Dishonorable Discharge  
Flight specialist  
_dfile4  
  
_
  * Major Samuel T. Wilson*  
S.A.F. | Pararescue  
Status: Honorable Discharge  
Flight specialist  
_dfile5  
  
*decryptx-special-note-from-teacher: worth mentioning the archive storage of retired FALCON suits has been missing exactly <one complete weapons log> since Mj S Wilson’s Discharge – coincidence, thy name is not._

Love from your personal Father Christmas xxx

**brooklyn, new york city**

**natasha romanoff**

Natasha doesn’t bother turning the lights off when she lets herself inside the apartment. She knows where everything is, down to the hazardous scattering of shoes across the front doorway, and she expertly navigates them in the pitch dark as she makes her way immediately to the kitchen.

The blinds are still cracked open, letting in just enough light from outside to avoid fumbling as she gathers up plates and cutlery, stacking everything in one hand and carrying the enormous take-out bag in the other through the eerily silent apartment all the way to the bedroom. She nudges the door open with her hip, welcomed by the quiet breaths of someone who is not even bothering to pretend to be asleep.

She doesn’t say anything, because his hearing aids won’t be in, and even if they were, he probably wouldn’t respond, on account of the promised sulk-athon he’s enacting.

Rather than bother herself much, Natasha simply sits herself on the foot of the bed, her legs crossed, and starts dishing up the burgers, fries and assorted greasy goods with little fuss. She doesn’t need a light on to feel Clint’s eyes watching her through his lashes, thin slits of gold edged steel heavy on her face.

For a moment, she actually thinks he’s going to achieve the impossible and _not _say anything.

Only, then she picks up one of the milkshakes and sips through the straw loudly.

“Strawberry mix?” a meek, puppyish voice asks from the other end of the bed.

Natasha barely smiles, looking over at him.

He’s a rumpled, sorry sight. Hair sticking up stubbornly, throat still bruised and that goddamn cast on his arm that he’s scratching over the plaster, which has been covered in penis doodles – only most of them by other people, probably. His legs are hidden under the covers but she can tell by the bulk of his left ankle that it’s still wrapped up.

Clint pushes himself up in the valley of cushions he’s surrounded by, accepting the cardboard cup Natasha offers him and sipping tentatively. A smile brightens on his shadowed face.

“You’re my favourite,” he says, like she doesn’t already know. She shoves a plate of fries within his reach, eyeballing him hard until he picks up a couple. She decides magnanimously she won’t even make a snide comment if he dips them in his shake, provided he actually _eats _something.

He does, miraculously, without spoiling them with strawberry milkshake, and briefly pauses to grab his hearing aids.

Only once they’re on does he ask:

“How is it?”

Natasha hauls herself around to the other side of the plates, so she can lie propped up by a thousand pillows, slotting neatly under Clint’s good arm. He’s bed-sweat-warm, a little stale, and she burrows closer as she kicks her stilettos off. They thump onto the floor with a satisfying sound of rejection.

“Oh, you know,” she sighs, picking up a burger that requires both hands and debating whether to bite left and risk spilling mustard on her dress, or bite right and definitely drop some onions on it instead. “Very Tony Stark.”

Clint cups his hand under her chin just as she goes to take a bite, catching the drip of mustard that oozes out of the bun. She frowns at him as she munches, and his smile is all kisses and charm.

“I like this dress,” he says, sounding uncharacteristically reasonable.

“You hate all my dresses,” Natasha retorts.

“Now that is just plain untrue,” Clint splutters, reaching over and knocking Natasha’s head in the process as he licks the mustard off his palm. Natasha makes a token noise of disgust, but doesn’t quite manage to wriggle out from under his arm all the way. “I like all your dresses when you’re wearing them.”

“Excuse me,” Natasha scoffs through another mouthful of beef and onions. “You _ripped _a four-thousand –”

“OK, that one had it in for me from the start,” Clint says in a distinctive _La La La _voice of disinterest, opening the lid of his milkshake to scoop up some of the thicker ice cream from the bottom with his straw and slurp it. “How was I supposed to know there was a hidden button _as well _as a zipper?”

Natasha leans over for a cold, strawberry kiss. Clint responds with surprise, enthusiasm, and his usual _I hate the taste of lipstick _face when he pulls away, grinning.

“Seriously, though,” Clint says, frowning when Natasha lets out a hyena _Ha! _of amusement at that one. “What’s he like?”

Natasha lets out a long breath that she feels like she’s been holding for hours.

“Showy, insecure, arrogant, naïve, and better looking in person.”

Clint mulls this one over as he eats a few more fries.

“Huh,” he says. _“Better _looking? I always figured he’d be the opposite.”

“Me too,” Natasha agrees, taking another bite of – “Shit!”

Clint makes a crowing sound of victory as Natasha stares horrified at the mustard splattered down her dress. She lifts up the burger, trying to lick away the excess from the bread while also ignoring the hot-and-bothered sounds Clint makes at that.

“You are on way too many meds to get excited over bread licking, honey,” Natasha says sweetly, swapping the burger to one hand so she can pat Clint’s covered crotch just heavily enough to make him hum.

“Guh!” he cries, defeated and sad, and finishes off his milkshake, tossing it in the trash can across the room.

When he makes a grabby hand, Natasha frowns.

“More fries,” she says sternly, planting the plate on his lap. “Then more milkshake.”

Clint scowls, shoving some more fries ostentatiously into his fat mouth and chewing very loudly. Natasha pulls a displeased face that Clint – trusting, loving, over-medicated Clint – falls for hook, line and sinker, showily eating more fries with vigour in retaliation.

“Good boy,” Natasha says, just to enjoy the rosy pink of Clint’s cheeks, which she kisses with a greasy lipstick smear.

They work their way through most of the food, and all the milkshakes, throwing the rest in the trash before sprawling out like sloppy starfish over each other on the bed. Clint groans, and Natasha prods at him until he dry swallows some more pills, kissing him in reward and flicking his nipple hard. Clint wiggles shyly away and closer in a single move.

He’s soft all over, limp limbed and shaky with tiredness as digestion takes charge. He blinks steadily, all shoulders and elbows and a clunky cast that he somehow manages to smack into the bridge of his nose not once, but twice. The second time, he lets out a surprised yelp and a dry sob of annoyance at himself, at his arm and at the world at large.

Natasha drops the dirty plates on the rug at her side of the bed, shimmies out of her dress with little dignity before taking hold of his hand to keep it still on his abdomen while she snakes her leg over his knee, keeping him held in place. His mouth drops a kiss on her forehead, and she leaves a trail of them in return over his chest.

“How long we got?” he mumbles, already moments away from slipping into unconsciousness.

Natasha purses her lips into his skin, dipping her cold nose into his warmth.

“I’ll be leaving in three hours.”

Clint huffs, but doesn’t say anything more as he curves his arm tighter around Natasha’s bare back, his fingers trailing up and down the dimples of her spine, rough callouses tender as cotton on her skin.

“I miss you,” he says, and it should be a futile statement, when she’s right here, when she’s been here every second she can spare, when she’s not even going that far away when she does leave –

But she knows it’s true, and she misses him too, only, before she can say as much, Clint has pulled out his hearing aids and is dropping them on the bedside cabinet. Natasha sighs, flicking his nipple again, just to feel him squirm, then hooking her knee a little better over his thigh to settle in for as long a three-hours as she can possibly manage.

**(отчет trans. DOCTOR L---- K------ ASSIGNED CO-HANDLER --/--/2013 - present** **INACTIVE DEPLOYMENT LOG – --/--/2014)  
_ASSET СОЛДАТ: _**_C-G Chamber Secured. Clean slate. Upon re-entry, leave reasonable time frame for recovery period: minor transverse fractures in tibia. Abrasion to right side 83% healed._

** _ASSET JASTRZĄB: _ ** _Sedated. Hood active. Clean slate. Upon re-entry allow adjustment period for new withhold settings: 5y7stymphalian]._  
Oversight: Agents R-----, B---- AND S----, A----.  
Recipient Handler Doctor C-------- H------ CONFIRMED.

** **

** **

** **

** **

**washington d.c.**

**captain america**

When running twenty miles (at least, the same four miles five times with increasing boredom), drinking three variations of a latte (only one of which actually resembled a _latte_ at all), and doodling some more cartoons of _Pigeon MacGregor & Rebecca _(an eponymous and personal favourite of a young Becca Barnes from a lifetime ago), Steve gives up trying to chase away the previous night’s dreams and just lets them wash over him instead.

He drinks some sweet tea, eats an omelette he’s somehow managed to simultaneously burn and undercook, grabs his phone and his keys and sets off on foot for a long, meandering walk.

Checking his texts absently, there’s nothing new from Natasha about their meet up later, so he takes his time.

He doesn’t…_dislike _D.C., he’s decided. He sure doesn’t like it all that much, he doesn’t dislike it either.

Aside from the occasional, intrusive thoughts he has about exactly how much Bucky would have to say about that street, or that coffee shop, or that cinema, Steve’s managed to carve himself something of a life here. He gravitates between his apartment here and the disorienting house of luxury that is Tony’s place in Manhattan with a natural, tide-like ebb and flow, never letting the dust settle too long in either place.

Nothing feels exactly homey, per say, but who is he to complain? He’s got two places that count as roofs over his head. It doesn’t matter that the beds aren’t half as easy to sleep in as a mudhole in Europe with Bucky on his six.

The sun is bright today, the skies clear and full of skylarks, and in no time at all his feet have wandered a circle and a half and he finds himself at a vaguely familiar building that he’s promised more than once to return to, but never quite managed it.

The steps up to the VA are steeper than a cliff, but Steve ignores his body’s protest as he walks straight on through. He’s wearing his most generic shirt-jacket-hat combination that works shockingly well as a disguise, despite what Nat says to the contrary, and it’s easy enough slipping through the corridors, all meek nods and half-smiles of gentility.

It’s the third time he’s slipped into the back of a room for a group session – the fourth, counting the time he got half a step in, realised he’d have been only one of six people there, and promptly decided that was just asking to get made and sneaking back out again.

In a crowded enough room, Steve can pass. He’s tall, yes, and muscular and good-looking, but he can pass as nothing more than that, with the aid of some shoulder-hunching and a down-turned mouth, both of which feel a little easier today anyway.

There’s a new group leader, this time, but Steve recognises instinctively a few of the faces in the cluttered room from previous haphazard visits. He shifts uncomfortably, and listens, while a wiry kid who looks too young to sign up, never mind get discharged, starts off the session with a stammer.

Steve exhausted SHIELD’s backlog of therapists within the first year. His Ma didn’t raise a quitter, and when he struck out with the first one, he dutifully moved on to the second. And the third. And the fourth. And –

It just felt _wrong._

Not the therapy, per say. Not the needing it, even, which Steve will give himself the credit to be grown up enough to know he needs some goddamn help, sometimes. No, the wrongness came from the way no matter how he tried to phrase it, no matter how hard or gentle the approach, he just couldn’t bring himself to _say_ it.

But the truth? The truth, well.

It simply wasn’t _fair._

It wasn’t fair that after twenty-five years of hard breathing and a weak stomach and a stuttering heart, he didn’t even make it to two years with a brand new body that should have been as good a shield as the one he was carrying. It wasn’t fair that he lost everyone in such quick succession – his Ma, Buck, Doctor Erskine, Buck _again, _then Peggy and Howard and Dum Dum and Jacques and Morita and Monty and Gabe and – _Brooklyn, _he never saw it again, the way he loved it best.

It wasn’t fair, waking up surrounded by people who knew Captain America’s name and his birthday and not the first damn thing about Steve Rogers. It wasn’t fair, waking up in a world where a man could put a ring on another man’s finger and tell the whole world he loved him, and all Steve could remember was staring at the back of Bucky Barnes’ head as he walked away down a dark London street, wishing he could just whisper it without worrying about a bullet finding the back of his own.

It wasn’t _fair _that – what wasn’t fair? Another chance at life? Surviving the inexplicable odds of nosediving into the Arctic Ocean? Living to a see world that endured the sundering of war and came out the other side to a brighter sky? Getting a brand new life wearing a meat suit of a body that would let him live it however he damn well pleased? Finding friends, _good _friends, teammates and loved ones he could trust, with his life and his soul and his future?

It wasn’t fair of Steve to even think it. He’s had his shot – one, twice, twelve times over.

Who the fuck is he to talk about fair?

By the time the session wraps up, Steve has been silent for so long since leaving his apartment he can feel the gravel in his throat building up. He lingers awkwardly, pushing at chairs one by one to nudge them back into order with the air of someone who is _very focused _and _certainly not procrastinating. _Bodies are milling out and about in dribs and drabs, voices low as far-off thunder, rumbling comfortingly in the air. He hears someone laugh, quietly, and there’s the skin slap of two hands coming together in a high-five.

Steve rearranges another chair and mostly ignores the sudden presence of a man standing almost-close.

“Haven’t seen you in here before,” the group leader, Sam, says.

Steve pauses with a chair in his hand, blinking as he takes the man in.

Sam – _Major Wilson, _as one of the young men from the group had called him, only to be quickly waved down to Sam again – is tall, thick arms crossed over his chest and a suspiciously neutral expression on his face. He glances at the backs of the last two men leaving the room, waiting until the door has swung shut behind them before grabbing a chair and joining in Steve’s fix-it charade.

“I’ve tried a couple times,” Steve admits, a one-shouldered shrug of Sisyphus’ boulder. “Still pretty new, I guess.”

“Pretty new to a lot of things, I’m sure, Captain,” Sam says, and the momentary alarm that pings through Steve’s brain like a pinball is blinding. He freezes, stiff as a board and turning to Sam with what must be a rabbit-eyed look of surprise, judging by Sam’s gap-toothed grin. “Seen you out running the same circuit a few times. I can think of precisely one man who makes it twenty miles in thirty minutes without breaking a sweat.”

Steve scrunches his face up, embarrassed, and focuses on not accidentally breaking the chair in his hands.

Before he can say anything, Sam’s got a hand on his upper arm, very light, very calm.

“Anyone who’s noticed in here,” he says, head tilted to gesture to the room at large, “Knows better than to breathe a word, Captain Rogers. We appreciate you coming in.”

“Steve,” Steve corrects instinctively, feeling hot around the earlobes. “It’s just Steve.”

He realises, belatedly, it’s the same way Sam had reacted to the _Major Wilson _remark.

“And I’m just Sam,” Sam says again in agreement. “Good to meet you, Steve.”

“Good to meet you, too, Sam.”

They shake hands, and some of the earthquake tremoring in Steve’s gut settles a little at Sam’s sturdy grip, his clear eyes.

“If you don’t mind me saying, sometimes outrunning the devil is better with backup,” Sam says, as they continue to shuffle chairs with a sort of rhythmic solidarity that is reassuringly banal. “If you ever needed a running partner…”

Any uncertainty that might be found in Sam’s expression is effectively wiped away when Steve throws him a smirk and asks, “Oh, and your usual is what exactly, twenty miles in thirty hours?”

Sam laughs generously, with his face and his hands, shaking his head.

“Oh, they don’t mention the _sass _in the war reels,” Sam exclaims, and Steve breathes a chuckle of his own.

“Well, they don’t mention a lot of things,” he replies.

“I’ll bet,” Sam says, scratching the back of his neck. The warmth exuding from him is inviting, the way sunshine is inviting. Full of promises that will be fulfilled. “Maybe I’ll see you on the track soon, Steve.”

“Hope so,” Steve replies, and is about to turn to leave when he catches something on Sam’s face, out of the corner of his eye. An expression that doesn’t belong there, doesn’t feel right to walk away from. He pauses, looking back, and Sam raises his eyebrows expectantly. “What’s a matcha latte?”

Another laugh bubbles, brook-like, out of Sam’s delighted smile.

“It’s supposed to be tea,” he says. “Created by the Japanese. Appropriated by hipsters and Lulu Lemon moms.”

Steve’s mouth twists unpleasantly, remembering the taste.

“I had one this morning,” he confesses. “That was pretty new.”

Sam’s smile widens considerably, all teeth and glee. Pushing one last chair back against the wall, he picks up his jacket from the back of the one he’d spent most of the session sitting on and slings it on.

“Tried a macchiato yet?” he asks.

Steve shakes his head violently.

“Too afraid to ask,” he says, to another snicker.

“HYDRA vs Baristas,” Sam announces, slapping Steve’s upper back in a sorely missed gesture that makes all the shards of his dreams loosen a little in his head.

“I’ll take HYDRA first,” he admits, as he follows Sam out of the room, breathing easier than he has done in days.

Natasha’s already waiting by the time he gets there. She holds up an open bag of pistachio nuts as Steve takes a seat on the bench beside her, tipping a handful into his open palm when he accepts. They’re salty, bitter, and satisfying to crack open in a routine sort of way, rapidly collecting the shells in a small mountain on his lap.

“What do you think?” she asks without ceremony, her eyes fixated on two dogs up ahead on the green who are squabbling over a tattered tennis ball.

Steve takes a deep breath, thumbing a broken shell.

“He’s a nice guy.”

It’s the truth. Whatever else there is to it, it’s still the truth.

“You think he could be compromised?” Natasha asks, popping another pistachio between her teeth.

Steve bites the inside of his mouth, watching the smaller dog tear away with a ripped quarter of the ball gleefully, stumbling over its paws and wrapping itself around its owner’s legs.

“I think we’ll have to wait and see,” he admits, without bothering to hide his frustration.

Natasha purses her lips, seeming much the same as he feels.

“Stark’s talked to Fury,” she says, pouring more unasked for pistachios onto Steve’s legs. “He’s got an in on Project Insight. He’s started digging. Maybe he can find something from his end.”

Steve thinks about the first time he watched Tony stick his nose into SHIELD’s business – the first time he watched Tony stick his nose into any business. Jesus, he thinks he maybe really had hated him, that first day. Just a little bit. Just enough.

Now, he just feels a guilty stab of worry, letting Tony throw himself into the unknown depths of SHIELD’s secrets unprotected.

“What are you going to do?” he asks, finally turning to look at Natasha.

She looks tired, tired like he hasn’t seen her in a while. She’s worried about something, something more than her default state of distrust. She gives him the most awful smile he thinks he’s ever seen this century.

“I’m going to see a bad guy, Steve,” she tells him.

He thinks about offering to go with her, thinks about the vehemence with which she’d tried to reject the demand, weeks ago, in Fury’s office. He thinks about offering, and forcing her to have to say no, no matter how much she might want otherwise.

Instead, Steve reaches over and clasps his hand around her cold fingers. There’s a momentary pull as she instinctively tries to tug out of his grip. Then, she turns her hand in his to take it, just for a moment. A squeeze of concern, and gratitude, and compassion, soft and dry and _there._

**a dream, a dream**

The Soldier dreams in cold tones. It is always the same. He is standing in a small room, which has a small bed and a small chair and a small table. There’s a window above the bed, grubby with frost. Somebody says: _At ease, Soldier. _Only, it rides a wave of laughter. Then he is very warm, stiflingly warm, and there is mud and blood on the upturned sheets of the bed, and the chair is broken and the table is scarred with knife marks. The Soldier looks out of the window. Fuzzy, through the ice bitten glass, he sees the outline of a hand pressing up against it.

**the trapper paddock**

**black widow**

After deliberately setting off two alarms on her way through the perimeter surrounding the cottage, Natasha is somewhat disappointed to get all the way to the front door of the lodge without running into an unfriendly welcome party. She’s never been here before, but the mossy air of the land has a familiar stench of unpleasantness, a scent of distrust, of disloyalty.

The one storey house itself is tattered, well hidden, and momentarily shows no sign of living presence. The floorboards of the stumpy veranda creak when she steps up onto it, her sidearm held readily in both hands, and for a moment there is only the angry little squirrel in the pine tree to the southeast of the lodge and then –

Footsteps. Slow, shuffling, ungainly. On the other side of the door, a voice says:

“I got no trouble with you, Widow. Go on now.”

Natasha bites the sides of her tongue to keep herself in check, holsters her gun, and rolls her eyes for the pleasure of it.

“Let me in, Duquesne,” she says with a dry line of disinterest that he won’t buy for a second. She can feel sweat in her scalp, and under the collar of her jacket. “We need to talk.”

The door swings open, unexpectedly, but Natasha doesn’t flinch in surprise, or in horror at the sight she’s presented with.

Time has been no friend to Jacques Duquesne, nor eased his path to recovery. His once lean, almost handsome face, is grizzled with a patchy beard that does nothing to cover the deeply scored lines carved into the right side of his face. There’s a crater in his cheekbone, where Natasha’s blade had punched right through the bone, and a slit along his temple where hair will no longer grow, all the way to the back of his head.

He’s wearing a thick sweater, cargo pants and slippers, and one hand is leaning on a wooden cane. What little skin of his fingers and throat can be seen is ropey with recovered scorch marks.

His dark eyes are wrinkled at the corners, squinting tight as his mouth.

“Oh, we do, do we?” he asks, his voice rough with disdain and possibly disuse. Natasha doubts he gets many visitors out here, at least, few that SHIELD know about. He’s been under their watchful eye for some time.

Duquesne’s gaze searches her hungrily, from hairline to footwear, before taking in the empty space behind her.

“Not got your baby bird with you?” he asks, and there’s no telling if it’s a genuine question, or if he knows, and is doing his damnedest to be hurtful.

“No,” she replies, regretting it instantly. He latches onto the hardness of her tone immediately.

“Well then,” he says, a smile lurking on the corners of his mouth. “I guess you better come inside.”

Though he tries to inject some measure of threat into the invitation, it does little to affect Natasha beyond rankling her further. She stalks inside past him, barely refraining from kicking his cane out from under him only by reminding herself she has things she needs from this asshole, first. She can kick it on her way out.

The inside of the lodge is as dismal as the outside. Dust motes glitter in the air, the couch is threadbare, and it has the woodish, metallic smell of books and gun oil and carpentry left unattended. SHIELD has always known Duquesne kept a workshop in his little hidey hole, but with what little Natasha had left of him, all those years ago, they hadn’t kept him as tightly restricted as she’d have liked.

She never thought she’d accuse Nick Fury of being _soft. _And yet.

“Do make yourself at home, kiddo,” Duquesne leers, wobbling after her as she stalks through the open room, peering towards the kitchen, the open door of a bedroom. Chip packets and greasy bags littering the floor.

Natasha takes herself all the way to a far window, so she can glance out of it at the leaf-strewn land through the grimy glass, then tug the blind down and lean back with her arms folded.

Duquesne makes a song and dance about seating himself a hard-back wooden chair on the end of a table. For anyone else, he might be hungering for sympathy, but for Natasha it’s almost…submission. A display of inferiority, a _look how you beat me, _and it sets her teeth on edge. She didn’t come here to posture, and she expects no supplication in return from this shit stain of a human being.

“Arthritis gets us all, in the end,” Duquesne grumbles, leaning his cane against the table to squeeze at his knuckles. “So, you want a sword? Because sweetheart, you know I don’t exactly do commissions no more.”

He offers up his gnarled fingers as proof. Even from across the room, Natasha can see he hasn’t managed to get all his fingernails back.

“I don’t want a sword,” she replies.

“A bow?” he asks with a croak of a grin. “’Case I’d have thought you had someone else –”

“Who have you traded with in the past five years?” Natasha asks, because if he finishes that sentence, she’s going to put another knife inside him, and she can’t. Her fingers bite deeper into her arms as a reminder.

Duquesne tilts his haggard head to the side curiously, scratching his fingers through his pushed back hair. It’s overlong, where it’s growing, the ends trailing almost to his shoulders. Streaks of silver seem to shine over his head, backlit from the window he’s half leaning into.

“I don’t trade no more, kiddo.”

“Bullshit,” Natasha says. “Give me names, Duquesne.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.”

That, as expected, gets a full-bellied, throat-chafing laugh out of him. Jacques Duquesne, the Swordsman, the bad guy she didn’t kill for no reason other than someone who meant more to her _asked her not to, _laughs in her face with such ecstatic thrill it can only possibly be genuine. His head falls back, and his chest huffs up and down, and when he looks at her again with wider eyes he’s still smiling. Still loving every second of it.

“Oh, girl,” he drawls. “Why in the name of God would I do what you want?”

“You know why,” Natasha replies, because she won’t say Clint’s name to this monster, but she’s never needed to. She wears it on her face, every day, carries the weight of it on her shoulders, on her soul. His love. His absence.

Duquesne doesn’t laugh at that one, but he does smile something terrible. Looks out of the window, and down at his gnarly hands, and back at the woman intruding on his exile, the woman who put him here, in this crippled body, trapped in this crappy lodge.

Natasha watches the light spilling over him, the dusty gleam of it, sees in her mind’s eye that face, blood soaked, pleading. Clint’s glassy grey eyes and his hands reaching out for her with that face, that _face –_

“I know who you’re looking for, little webspinner,” Duquesne says.

It’s an unexpected fold. Natasha had six more plays to make, before getting to this point. She feels wrongfooted.

Natasha doesn’t like feeling wrongfooted.

“Oh?” she asks with enough sarcasm to sink them both into the mudhole of ground beneath them.

Duquesne nods slowly, shifting on his chair and he seems almost – _nervous._ She doesn’t like it.

“A woman,” he says, and it takes every ounce of Natasha’s personal strength to keep from reacting. “Wanted to know about blades. How to inlay ‘em. Make ‘em durable. Redhead. British. Manner like a thunderstorm.”

Natasha’s hand reaches into her jacket pocket, and there’s no denying the little flinch Duquesne gives at the speed of the movement. She ignores it, crossing the room in several long strides as she unfolds the piece of paper she extracts, thrusting it at Duquesne, scrutinising his every reaction. The widening of his eyes, the part of his lips, the hitch in his breath.

He looks at the photo of Carlotta Cornwell downloaded from JARVIS and he knows her. It’s as obvious as the scars on his face.

Only, when he nods, wondrous, he doesn’t look surprised, or eager, or angry, or any such thing.

He looks _afraid._

Manner like thunderstorms indeed.

“That’s her,” he says. “Halford, she said her name was.”

Natasha doesn’t know the name, but that hardly matters. She knows the woman isn’t going by _Cornwell. _Another name is, if anything, only more helpful.

“She wanted to know about blades,” Natasha prompts him, and Duquesne wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he pushes the paper back into her hands, nodding.

“I told her I couldn’t give her none. Explained how to get the flexibility right, bits of other stuff, but I didn’t _make _nothing, alright? I didn’t make a fucking nail file for her. I don’t even know what they’d want knives for, anyhow.”

His panic gets her attention. The shake of his promise and the clench of his hand. His insistence. His fear.

But what grabs Natasha the hardest, grabs her like a hook behind her navel, wrenching at her insides.

_They._

“Who’s they?” she asks coldly, uncompromisingly, in a voice that says _I want you to admit it _more than _I don’t know who you’re talking about._

And maybe it works, or maybe Duquesne has finally found an adversary he dare not cross for anything, because when he scoffs it’s reactionary and frightened and he’s so angry he nearly shouts it, nearly bellows it for the squirrels outside.

“Fucking HYDRA, OK? I know she’s fucking _HYDRA.”_

Natasha’s every thought whites out, and there is only rage left in her wake.

**vault**

**hawk**

It’s impossible to know for sure when the hood is coming off. There is no warning scuffle of closeness, no flickering light of someone’s approach. There is only nothing, and then the hard click-lock of the collar unbuckling. The scrape of metal over his face and head. The tight tug of material pulled away.

The Hawk blinks, momentarily stunned by the viciousness of the fluorescent lights above his head.

A body standing over him – no, a woman.

Halford.

Her voice is loud over the din of machinery. Another person talking – no, two. A man. Two men.

A hand fists in his hair, holding him in place. He’s kneeling on the ground, and the hand on his head is rough, and his eyes are on the side of Halford’s face, and the man – the first man. The Hawk recognises him. The same height as Halford, a similar face, only older, so much older. Blondish hair and blue eyes, a candid, unfriendly look about his face.

_“…someone to take out this thorn in my side, and goddamnit this is why we have snipers!” _he’s shouting.

And Halford, impatient, reluctant, no man has ever stood up to her this way, the Hawk is sure.

“Do you want to risk a moment of damnable _clarity?” _she asks, shrill, sheer rage.

“Then send the Soldier alone!” the man is saying and there are doctors standing and they’re inside a _vault. _The Hawk takes in the bars, the metal cage, the instruments, the weaponry, the men in tac gear holding assault rifles, the tall, upright tube and inside it –

The Soldier. Frozen. His face – his _face._

The Hawk feels a biting jolt of panic in his belly, and when he glances down the hand in his hair wrenches him back up.

“Get him out, and prep him before the end of the week,” the man says, pointing at the frosted glass shielding most of the Soldier from view, then to the Hawk’s forcibly upturned face. “This one stays behind. I want the Director of SHIELD out of the equation before Insight takes off.”

Halford barks orders, too – following the man’s lead, and her hand strays to the strands of hair falling on the Hawk’s face, her nails digging into his scalp as she takes the lead, drags him forwards, towards a tall, rigid chair drilled into the centre of the room.

The Hawk tries to turn his head, tries to see through the bustling bodies crowding the Soldier, the hiss of air escaping, the sucking plunge of sealant cooling and unmelding. He realises, starkly, his wings are gone, the hinges of his spine rising and falling and grinding as he crawls on hands and knees as directed.

A word drops out of his mouth, that he can’t remember learning.

When he sees, through a gap in the busy air –

The Soldier’s eyes are blue.


	7. 2015 Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest dears,
> 
> I'm so so sorry it's taken me so long to return to you. 2020 is really not a good time, is it?
> 
> I hope you are safe and well and taking very good care of yourselves and being incredibly kind to yourselves, too.
> 
> This chapter is a little short, I know. However, the next one should hopefully be a return to true extravagent form.
> 
> You all have my love!
> 
> LRCx

**(Part Seven – Hunt)**

**2015**

**avengers base, upper state new york**

**captain america**

_The dream ensues. Pursues._

_Pervades._

_The dream pervades._

_Steve, on his knees, bruised knees. Bruised face bruised hands bruised heart. He’s Arctic cold, in his very soul that snow that fell onto the back of his neck when he clung to that train. He’s shaking, shaking in the shadow cast over him by the man standing over him._

_The man, standing over him._

_Tall. Flesh and metal seared together, a pieced apart creature with dark hair and blue eyes and his face, his face, covered by that mask._

_“Please,” Steve whispers, wet as the ocean, full of salt._

_The man’s gun kisses the bridge of his nose but Steve doesn’t close his eyes, can’t remember if he wants the man to put the gun down, or pull the trigger. The man, standing over him. Flesh and metal and ice._

_The man lifts his other hand, digs his fingernails into his face, under the muzzle, pulling and wrenching and ripping. The mask peels away, blood pouring out of the gaps in his face, the corners of his eyes, his blue, blue eyes. His mouth, crimson, sewn shut with butcher’s string but that mouth, Steve knows that mouth –_

_“Please,” Steve whispers, he’s kissed that mouth, and the gun pushes harder into his face and the man standing over him, his blue, blue eyes. Blue eyes full of reddish tears that spill through his eyelashes and drip down his shredded face, that face, Steve knows that face, he’s kissed that face, he’s loved that face his entire life, to the end of the line and past it once the tracks stopped being laid –_

_“Please,” he whispers and the man standing over him drops to his knees and the blood sprays outwards –_

Steve wakes up, gasping, and vomits into his pillow.

This is the only thing Steve Rogers knows to be sure, every day: Bucky Barnes is alive.

Sleep never comes back easy after the dream. Steve’s long stopped making his sorry attempts to pretend otherwise.

His singular quarters in the brand new Avengers base is disquieting, dark even with all the lights on. He scrubs the sick and sweat from his skin, the salt from his hair, and dresses comfortably to walk the lonely lengths of the corridors leading to the common floor, opting not to give JARVIS the chance to trap him in the elevator for a vitals interrogation by taking the stairs instead.

Even before he reaches the kitchen, he can hear the faint traces of another person’s presence in the large, open plan room. The thin slide of book pages turned with a flick; the shift of breaths, the occasional slurp of a drink. He mostly assumes he’ll turn the corner and find Bruce in his usual armchair, immersed in his notes, unaware of the passing hours.

Instead, Steve is brought to a surprised halt by the unexpected presence of one Pepper Potts, bathing in lamplight, clutching a mug in one hand, a book nestled in her lap. She looks up, and her face transforms into that loveliest, gentlest smile of hers.

“Steve,” she says, warmly, worriedly. “Can’t sleep?”

She asks it without demanding an answer, dogearing her page and dropping the book on the couch. She takes another sip from her _BOSS _mug, holding it with both hands.

“I didn’t expect –” Steve inelegantly starts and fails, schooling his expression.

It’s coming on three years he’s known this woman, and she still makes him wary like nobody but Winifred Barnes ever could, before.

Pepper shrugs, tucking her ankles all the way under herself to kneel on the cushions. She’s still wearing a rich, crème pantsuit; there’s a small pile of removed jewellery glittering on the couch armrest and a pair of lethally high heels abandoned on the floor.

“Me neither,” she agrees with a drawn out sigh that turns quickly into a stifled yawn. “Things wrapped up early in London. I could have waited it out, but all I could think about once it was over was getting home.”

“Can’t blame you,” Steve remarks, making his way to the Bruce-dented armchair nearest the windows to slouch in the leather.

He almost does a double-take as he sinks into it. _Jesus. _No wonder Bruce claimed this one for himself. This is possibly the comfiest seat Steve has ever sat in, period. By her delicately raised eyebrow, it seems Pepper notices his reaction, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Is this a time difference thing?” he asks, gesturing to the book which he can now read upside down beside her – _A Room of One’s Own. _He’s never asked if that’s anything where her name comes from, or not. He’s never asked her a lot of things, truth be told.

Pepper shakes her head, tucking her long hair behind her ear and leaning back tiredly.

“By the time I got back, Tony was already sleeping. In a _bed. _He does it so rarely, I didn’t want to disturb him.”

Steve can’t help but think about the multiple guest bedrooms dotted all over the base that she could be using instead, if she hadn’t wanted to disturb Tony. Nevertheless, that’s none of Steve’s business, and if Pepper doesn’t want to disclose what’s keeping her up at three in the morning, Steve isn’t going to pry.

Pepper drains her mug, waggles it in her hand, and says, “I’m going to top up. Want something?”

“Sure,” Steve smiles, getting up to follow her to the kitchen.

They spend a leisurely few minutes exchanging an impolite back and forth over the thirty-six different types of tea that have somehow made their way onto the shelves, Pepper making several extraordinarily bold claims about the soothing effects of echinacea while Steve just wants to know what rooibos actually _is. _They settle on an inoffensive pot of elderflower and chamomile, letting it steep on the coffee table as they return to their comfier seats carrying fresh mugs – one of the fancy _Black Widow _ones for Steve, a disloyal _Captain America _one for Pepper.

Steve’s already breathing a little easier by the time they’re pouring it, the scent doing more for him than he’ll ever admit to, but Pepper grins smugly anyway, her feet crossed on the sofa as she tugs a throw from the back cushions over her knees.

They sit in companionable silence for a moment, sipping their tea.

Until, inevitably.

“How are you doing, Steve?”

Steve doesn’t get so angry at this question, anymore.

It’s been months. He’s _had _months. He should have a different answer than – devastated. He should be more than lost at sea in the tide of this erupted confusion that he’s been submerged in since that day, last year, that _day. _That face beneath a muzzle like a dog on a meat hook, Bucky, _Bucky. _Bucky Barnes’ face, Steve could throw up all over again to remember it.

Pepper’s leaning into the couch arm, steam pinking her cheeks, and the golden gleam of the light bouncing off the gilded red of her hair is as warm as her eyes. She is an undemanding presence, the opposite to her partner in so many ways. They complement each other, two suns in orbit. Steve remembers what that was like.

“I’m tired,” Steve replies, with a wobbly smile on his face that he maintains through force of habit alone.

To his surprise, Pepper’s hand reaches out to his wrist, a long stretch of movement, her white gold and diamonds knocked to the floor from the armrest as she grasps him lightly in her warm fingers. She squeezes his pulse, and it’s the most welcome gesture he could ask for. Easier to accept than a hug, more reassuring than a vague, half-hearted pat.

“You look tired,” she tells him, which might be a lie, because Steve has super serum in his veins and Steve’s body doesn’t retain his nightmares the way his whirring mind does. But it might not be, because Pepper Potts has her own brand of superpowers. Steve has seen them at work.

Pepper Potts can look at a person and see more of them than they ever know they’re revealing. And it doesn’t come from spy training, it doesn’t come from trauma induced paranoia. It’s a state of human compassion that is the most enviable trait Steve has encountered in his life. The kind he recognises from his mother’s careful hands, and Jacques Dernier’s easy murmurs, and Bucky’s –

Pepper’s finger presses his pulse, and her eyes see him.

She sees him.

“I can’t imagine the agony you’ve gone through,” she says, very certainly, so sure of herself, so _sure. _Sureness in her face, God, Steve wants to go back in time and tell Peggy Carter that while she feels all alone in the world, she’s so far from the only woman who’ll ever carry her grace, her strength. There are so many like her, and that’s a _good _thing. Pepper’s fingers are without callouses, but no less reassuring for it. “But I know the exhaustion of waiting, helplessly. I’m sorry you’re experiencing it.”

She does, doesn’t she? She _knows._

Pepper Potts knows what it is to wait, to be helpless. To know someone so important to her, someone she loves infinitely, is out there alone in the world, suffering, afraid, friendless – and that she cannot be there. He wonders what it was like for her, those months Tony spent under merciless hands in Afghanistan, wishing she could do more than hope for some miniscule sign that things would be OK.

It probably felt something like this. This ball of barbed steel anxiety wrecking Steve’s insides every waking second. Knowing, knowing and not _seeing,_ that out there in the world right now, is Bucky Barnes. Somewhere outside this base, suffering, afraid, friendless, all alone in this unforgiving world, is his Bucky, buried beneath decades of torment and abuse, he’s _alive._

Steve blinks, surprised at first to see damp drops on Pepper’s hand – then embarrassed, to realise there are tears stinging his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says reactively, drawing back, grateful that she lets him without a fuss. He rubs his face with the backs of his hands. Pepper politely returns to her side of the armrest, shaking her head.

“Don’t apologise,” she says. “I’m sure it’s overwhelming. You’re welcome to talk about it, but I’d understand if that’s more than you feel ready for.”

Has anybody granted this woman a Nobel prize yet? Steve should bring it up around Tony. He’d leap at the opportunity to lobby for Pepper’s reputation in a heartbeat, or less.

“I don’t even know what I’d say,” Steve admits, because what’s the point in lying? “I got it wrong. I got it all wrong, and he’s spent decades in pain. And now he’s out there somewhere, and I can’t find him. I don’t know if he’s hurt. If he escaped, or if some other monster got hold of him. I want to help him. I want him to know I will help.”

Pepper’s fingers wrap tighter around her mug, bringing it close to her torso. Steve’s own is abandoned on the coffee table.

“You sound very sure he’ll remember you.”

Unlike every other person to say it in the last few exhausting months, Pepper doesn’t sound doubtful. She sounds, if anything, admiring. Steve’s not sure how he feels about that, so he shoves the complex array of soothing-frightened-hopeful-proud tendrils aside and focuses on the words themselves.

“He did. I saw it, in his eyes. He didn’t shoot me.”

_“Steve,” _Pepper says, not so much chiding as pleading.

“OK, fine, yes. He _shot _me,” Steve concedes impatiently. “But he had his gun in my face. He could have finished me.”

“Steve,” Pepper says again, more melodic this time. More sadly. “He shot you in the head.”

He doesn’t snap at Pepper, because she still somehow manages to say it without the accompanying worries about brain damage that every other occupant of the tower has conveyed. He takes a deep breath, reaches for his tea to inhale the chamomile and pretend it does anything to calm him down, before speaking again.

“A _graze. _He – the _Winter Soldier _supposedly has a perfect history of clean kills. And in less than a week, he fails to kill Nick Fury _and _he shoots me in the head without killing me. What do you think are the odds of making a shot like that? Two like that? Either it’s a coincidence he failed to make two perfect shots while I was present, or it’s because some part of him, however _miniscule _that part is, remembers me. Is still _Bucky, _enough to know he’d never, ever hurt me. That he –”

For the briefest second, the word sticks like tar to his tongue. He doesn’t have to say it. Doesn’t owe the word to the universe, not to anybody but himself. But _why? _He’s so tired of pretending otherwise. Of ignoring Tony’s passive aggressive lingering opinions and Bruce’s sad-sorry expressions and –

“That he loves me,” he finishes without flinching, because Pepper will not reproach him. Without doubting, because that’s something he’s never had to do. He tried doubting Bucky, when he was ninety pounds soaking wet and hacking up his lungs. Tried to throw back the gift of Bucky’s heart in his own two hands and all it ever got him was a stricken look of anger and the silent treatment for a day.

In that moment, on his knees, just like he relives nightly in his dream. Bucky’s eyes over the mask, bluest diamonds, that relentless stare. He saw Steve, saw him and knew him, Steve will believe that with every breath even if he never lays eyes on Bucky again. Bucky Barnes looked at him and knew him and loved him, somehow, some fragment that could not be tamed, and it stayed his hand just enough.

Steve’s been living by scraped inches his whole life. Why should this be any different?

“I believe you,” Pepper says, and it’s not the platitude that her partner gave him, and it’s not the sarcasm that Nick Fury offered.

Perhaps it’s something about redheads, that they take his word better than most. Pepper, the only other person to trust his instinct on this one, second only to Nat –

Steve swallows uncomfortably and puts the thought aside for later.

“Thank you,” he replies, and this time it’s his turn to reach over and take her wrist. Feels her delicate, birdlike bones in his grip. She looks tired, too. “You should get some sleep, Pepper.”

“You first,” she replies defiantly, and he laughs into his tea.

“Very well, Ms Potts,” Steve retorts, before kicking up his feet on the coffee table and sipping his tea, fully prepared to hunker down for the long haul. The ring of Pepper’s laughter is pleasant, and truthful, and Steve basks in it as they share tea and silence, and the solace of each other’s company, for several long, fruitless hours.

In that moment, on his knees. Bucky’s hand didn’t tremble, so close to Steve’s face. His eyes were blue, his face was pale. His hair was long, framing his cut cheeks. He was bulky as a tank and he smelled rotten, like singed skin and dead blood cells and oily metal, smelled wrong, nothing like the soil of Europe in the back of his neck, that spiny ridge where Steve’s nose fit perfectly.

In that moment, Steve could have reached out a hand and touched him. Bucky. _Bucky. _A thousand years or more couldn’t tear his face from Steve’s mind. Somebody tore Steve’s from his, though. Somebody hacked inside James Barnes’ mind and carved out Steve’s place there and Steve doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s got nowhere to put that sort of hate.

He wishes Natasha were here.

**DATA_RETRIEVAL__decrypt__JARVIS_INITIATIVE: Widow_Files_Winnipeg  
P-6.8** **⁴ alternate_3649  
Day: 184**

**JARVIS | seek – code – inclusive: “falcon” OR “hawkeye” OR “barton” OR “pararescue”**

**Results: 247  
Primary_Relevance_Recurring:  
4/247: “pararescue division encountered”  
139/247: “barton oversight priority DELTA initiative”  
92/247: “hawkeye presence request”  
41/247: “hawkeye presence denied”  
2/247: “pararescue falcon [exo-seven] unit neutralised”**

**sioux falls, south dakota**

**barnes**

_Sun the on head on the back of the head aching sun on the cheeks burnt dry cracked like lips under a mask the mask hot sweat in the crease bruise on the skin bruises on the skin sun hot dry like electricity electric like blue blue like the sky like the ocean blue like the eyes peering from thin blond strands blue like pencils in a box cut into soap yellow soap oily on the sink basin dammit to christ rogers rough around the edges ain’tcha sourpuss rough like ripped paper rough as a slap on a face burnt face report mission report slap skin hot skin hot like burning like the sun on the head –_

_“I know you,” the man says into the kissing muzzle of the gun. “I’ve known you my whole life.”_

He wakes up.

Silent.

Breath caught like a bullet between his teeth.

Heart throbbing in the back of his throat.

Beside him, Hawk turns his head, to look at him.

He knows a lot of things, but this is what is important: His name is _James Buchanan Barnes. _He is alive. He is, in fact, somehow, a _person._

James Buchanan Barnes knows this: there is only one person he can trust in this world, the previous one or the next. Glassy blue eyes and sawdust hair. He is safe, with Hawk beside him.

One hundred and seventy-eight days ago.

The station worker’s eyes frightful, fright-full. Three kids (_Tamsin and Becky and George, please, please sir, I can’t-_) and he had pictures, tried to yank them out of his wallet but _“I don’t care” _Barnes replied, and did not look down at the trembling, shiny paper. _“I won’t hurt you. You will help us.”_

The station worker stammered a lot and nodded even more and the fearful sweat stinking his shirt collar was familiar in all sorts of unpleasant ways. They crossed the country hidden inside a freighter and the metal walls of the crate container were more familiar than anything they’d seen in forever.

And Hawk, still bleeding sluggishly from the gaping rips in his back, had lain over his lap, warm and heavy. It had been long, and uncomfortable; nothing but slow blood and synchronized breaths and a face tucked into his thigh and his fingers buried in matted hair and their eyes locked together with promises, their survival a fact of impossibility. Shaking, shaking off chemical sweat and retches scratching the back of their throats bloody. Licks of condensation inside the crate for hydration and crumbs of a stolen loaf for sustenance. Whispered reassurance and a forehead pressed against his own.

It was the best three days Barnes ever remembered.

Barnes wakes up from the familiar dream, heart racing.

Sioux Falls is oddly quiet for the hour, and Hawk’s fingers are gentle on his right wrist. Familiar callouses on an unmarred circle of damp skin. The dark hasn’t touched the windows yet; blisters of sunshine have leaked under the heavy blinds; orange in the late afternoon spilling onto the sun-stained window ledge.

“Not time yet,” Hawk whispers, and his mouth quirks upwards at the corners. It dimples his cheeks, softening the thin match-struck lines of his prominent cheekbones. He’s still losing weight.

“Soon,” Barnes promises, glancing at the clock they nailed to the wall two weeks ago, wonky long hand ticking one minute closer to the hour.

They haven’t ventured out before sunset once since arriving. That is to say, Barnes hasn’t ventured out before sunset.

Wearing a large hooded sweatshirt, grimy aviators and thick gloves, Barnes can slip through the chattering night streets unnoticed. Busy town walkers and drunk bar stumblers don’t notice missing wallets fat with fives and tens, sometimes even twenties. Harried shopkeepers too close to their margins to use CCTV don’t question one gruff customer of few words.

Hawk is not so lucky. Between the slow healing wounds of his metal spine, and the fragments of wings welded too well into his disfigured skeleton to be removed, he cannot sneak half so invisibly through crowds, not even in the cover of darkness.

It has been a gruesome month, trapped in these tiny walls, where Hawk has endured the taunt of fresh air through a cramped window crack, with tumultuous dreams and bursts of agitation that have left deep blue fingerprints in Barnes’ neck and torso. The fingerprint splotches are always outlasted by the morose guilt of Hawk who, every time, retreats to seething, frightened silence at the sight of them.

Barnes’ dreams are tumultuous, too. However, they have been less and less violent of late. Speckled instead with glimpses of the man from the Tower, the last mission target. His rough, tearful voice choking that name – that _name._

Barnes slides his hand into Hawk’s and squeezes his cold fingers.

“Hungry?” he asks.

Hawk shakes his head. As he shifts, the metal jaws of the exo-spine bend to his movements menacingly. Hawk says they do not hurt.

It is the only almost-lie he ever tells Barnes, who does not mind the poor deception. There is nothing to be done, in any case.

“Have you slept?” Barnes asks, and Hawk blinks, shaking his head again. Barnes scowls. “It’s your turn.”

He sits up, giving a half-hearted tug of his hand but when Hawk does not relinquish it, he stays where he is. It’s too light still to brave the streets, and he is not very hungry either. The one room apartment is not generous, nor well stocked. He does not remember the name of the man who owns it, but he remembers that that man is dead.

It is enough.

A lot of men are dead.

He reaches with his free hand to the chipped porcelain mug on the sideboard that was lifted, full of cigarette butts, from a doorway step. Now, it is clean and full of roasted almonds. He takes one out, and eats it in splinters, waiting for the sun to set.

These are the luxuries that they can afford themselves. The person-like choices that feel hasty and stolen and precious.

Almonds and sunflower seeds. Bottles of cordial that brighten up the water from the tap, covering the worst of the pipe taste when it must be drunk. Soap in crème rectangular bars that dries out their skin but also makes them smell clean and soft and un-metal.

Fresh fruit – apricots, even hard and out-of-season they are kind and fuzzy and dimpled; and blackberries that are almost sour and bananas that taste wrong-tang and mushy, and grapefruits that make their tongues curl and their noses wrinkle.

They don’t eat much of it, and sometimes it makes them sick.

Barnes keeps a list, in the brown and white notebook. All the things that his body doesn’t agree with on one page, and a corresponding one for Hawk on the other side. On the bad days, they have discovered they can rip out the soft middles of cobbs and bloomers, dip the doughy chunks in yoghurt, and it won’t hurt too bad.

They eat fresh fruit, now. They sleep in a bed. They hold hands under the covers, and it smells all wrong but it feels so familiar. Barnes knows he did this, once, or maybe ten thousand times before, with somebody else.

They hold hands. They talk in full sentences, about things that are not missions; the fruit they like best, the dreams they like least, the cat that sleeps on the balcony they never quite ignore. They talk. They wear soft clothes, all the time; fuzzy, cozy sweaters and cotton pants and socks, really thick pairs of socks. Barnes like that most of all. He likes being not-naked, and not-strapped into Kevlar.

He hasn’t found a sweatshirt big enough to cover Hawk properly, over his wings, but he’ll keep looking until he does.

Barnes leans closer to Hawk’s neck, sniffing cautiously as he sleeps. Clean sweat and dry skin and metal. The square soap. Strawberries from the juice he drank earlier. He doesn’t smell of infection anymore. Hasn’t done for weeks. The horrid rips along his spine have healed, nothing more than shiny pink keloids in mismatched array.

Barnes doesn’t know where Hawk came from. He knows – _knows, _the kind of knowing instinct that also remembers bananas taste _wrong_ and coffee tastes _better_ – that there was a time before, a time without Hawk. What he can’t remember is what that felt like. He can’t remember not looking for him every time he walks into a room.

He can only remember this: a humming anxiety, looking at a small sickbed and seeing blond hair peeking out atop the covers, the pillows dimpled by a tired face pushed into it.

He knows this, knows it as he knows little else. He knows the fingertips of his right hand, rubbing calloused circles into a damp neck.

Barnes eats another almond, nibble by nibble, birdlike, and he smiles in rhythm with the discordant breathing of Hawk beside him.

** _@nytimes _ ** _What constitutes the ‘enhancement’ of a human, and does society have an obligation to document individuals of this nature? Is registration the answer?**  
**[“ACCOUNTABILITY IS KEY”: SECRETARY OF STATE TAKES ON THE AVENGERS WITH PROPOSED ‘ENHANCED INDIVIDUALS ACT’  
Congress is preparing to weigh in on the proposed bill endorsed by Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross, former Lieutenant General of the United States Army, who has remained outspoken in his criticism of the group of enhanced individuals known as the Avengers, led by Captain America and, as of last year, financially backed by Stark Industries.]  
[nytimes.com]  
**  
  
**_

**warsaw, poland**

**black widow**

The warehouse has been crippled by disuse, but that doesn’t make it unworthy of further attention.

It’s the fourth of its kind Natasha has sniffed out in Warsaw alone. She is stripping Europe of its poisons piece by piece, country by country, imagines Sally Bowles’ two fingers crawling over the back of that chair as she inches across the continent and doesn’t think about that off-key singing from a shower in Berlin, when she had a concussion and Clint –

It doesn’t matter. She’s not thinking about it, anyway.

Beside her, Maria Hill is mirroring her position at a well-angled window of a bare apartment. Hill was not strictly invited on this expedition, and Natasha knows she could slip out of her ex-Deputy Director’s grasp with relative ease if she made a concerted effort to. Unfortunately, along with Maria Hill comes some desirable firepower and a direct line to Fury whenever she needs, so for now, Natasha has kept mum on the matter of Hill’s unwelcome presence.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked half a mile past the Serbian border as the tracks smoothed out, and Natasha’s stomach contracted even as she smiled her silkiest grin and offered a hand, saying: “Please, sit.”

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Hill asks, now, and Natasha purses her lips.

“I always thought your name was Maria, not Cathy,” she replies coolly. She almost smiles at the heat of Hill’s eyes on the side of her face.

“You know, he’s the one who told me –”

“Please don’t trouble yourself with explanations,” Natasha interjects briskly, without taking her eyes off the door. The less that is spoken, even second-hand, of the very-much-alive Phil Coulson’s intentions, the better. “I know an obedient soldier when I see one.”

A harsh snort of air comes from the woman beside her. Natasha knows she’s struck too deep, at too true a target, but she can’t bring herself to care. Lies have carried them to this point in time, they’ve carried Natasha her whole life. She’s not offended by them, lifeblood of the IC’s beating heart. That doesn’t mean she cares for them.

They sit in rigid silence for almost ten minutes. The wind picks up outside, scraping its blustery fingers along the exposed brickwork of the building they’ve been holed up in for the better part of the past two days. One glance confirms Natasha’s suspicions: Maria Hill is _tired. _Tired, not in the physical sense. She’s certain Maria could drag herself up and onwards for another two days yet before truly faltering. Tired in the all-encompassing, inescapable, biblical sense of the word. Maria Hill is just _tired._

And, truthfully?

Natasha’s tired, too.

Curling her knees under herself, Natasha turns noticeably enough to grab Hill’s attention. Her cool blue eyes flit over her frame, taking in her posture and her expression and where she’s put her hands. This, maybe is the problem. She always thought Hill never saw her as _Natasha, _only _Agent Romanoff. _The reality is, she’s never been anything more than the _Black Widow._

There was a time when Natasha would have been pleased by that sort of thinking.

Natasha holds out her right hand, and other than a millisecond of staring at it with all the enthusiasm of a live grenade, Hill smiles, bemused, before taking it in a firm handshake.

“I’m Natasha,” she says, shaking twice and letting go. “The closest thing I have to a home is a gaudy monstrosity in New York owned by the most outrageous billionaire on the planet. I have six passports, none of which bear my real name. The man I love might be dead, or he might be a murderous killing machine, or he might be hiding in a cabin on Svalbard not answering my calls. Six months ago, I found out I’ve been duped into working for HYDRA for the past decade. It’s been a rough few years.”

A startled laugh bubbles out of Hill’s mouth, which is contorted into something suspiciously close to a _smile. _She re-grabs Natasha’s hand as she pulls away, and rather than shake again, she kisses her knuckles, just once. Her mouth is dry and cold.

“I’m Maria,” she replies, and her eyes are as sad as they are grateful. “The last home I had that didn’t belong to SHIELD now belongs to my ex-husband and his new wife. They just had a baby boy, and I’m doing everything in my power not to think about if they called him Rowan, like we were going to call ours. I have two passports, and one of them has half my real name. Six months ago, I found out I’ve been duped into working for HYDRA.”

Natasha feels the corners of her mouth twitch.

She adds, for Maria: “It’s been a rough few years.”

Another laugh, and a bigger smile, and for the briefest moment, a glossy look in her eyes.

“It has been such a rough few years.”

Maria curls her legs around, too, and their kneecaps almost touch where they sit. It’s been a while since Natasha felt so close to another human being, in ways beyond physical proximity. She looks back at the warehouse door, which is still sealed tightly shut.

The sky beyond is thickening with a growing storm. Fat coils of smoky coloured clouds are gathering in a long, looming line along the horizon, creeping closer with every passing minute.

“Natasha –” Maria says, and Natasha, for all she’s been waiting for this moment for days, for weeks, for _months, _suddenly can’t bear to hear Maria Hill apologise for something she had no part in.

“It wasn’t your fault, Maria,” she interrupts. “No more than any of us.”

Maria offers up a half-measured shrug, neither accepting nor rejecting the dismissal.

“I should have listened to you sooner.”

Natasha shakes her head, leaning more heavily into the window frame and eyeing the approaching storm with displeasure.

“You did,” she reminds Maria. “I just wasn’t prepared to accept the help you offered.”

Maria turns away, to the window. Peers through squinting eyes as if holding back a thousand rebuttals.

“I should have given you better help than an inexperienced junior agent.”

Natasha makes a noncommittal sound. All things considered, she could have done a lot worse than what she got.

“Well, at least you sent me a Carter. That counts for something.”

Maria purses her lips, and at first Natasha thinks she’s angry, before realising she’s holding back a third smile.

“I was talking about Rogers.”

It’s Natasha’s turn to laugh, surprised and delighted and it’s a breath of fresh air in her constricted lungs, a relief she hadn’t thought to look for. She shakes her head, and lets her smile break free, and when she looks back out of the window, the chain holding the doors together is rattling. It slides out of its loop, and one of the doors cracks open.

“Hallelujah,” Maria grunts, pulling up to her knees and unclipping her holster.

“Ready?” Natasha asks.

“And waiting, Agent Romanoff,” Maria replies, and her teeth flash in a hungry, eagerness that Natasha feels in her own jittering heart.

**washington d.c.**

**captain america**

Approaching the steps of the familiar restored townhouse takes every miniscule shred of strength in Steve’s reserves. It’s not a generously sized building – good for young newlyweds buying their first home together, perhaps; or better still, for a young air force major with a middling-wage job at the VA and his discharged veteran benefits to supplement.

The door is closed, as imposing as a HYDRA blockade.

More so, even, when his shield is purposefully miles away, and he’s defenceless in more ways than one.

For a fleeting moment Steve is struck by the stupidity of not doing this over the phone. Of not at least calling ahead to arrange a time. A neutral territory would have been better, not barging in on a man’s home like some –

** _KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK_ **

His hand makes the decision for him, rapping just shy of aggressively loud on the wood.

There’s a pause exactly the length of time it takes for Steve’s prepared speech to leak out of his ears, leaving his empty head dusty with frazzled nerves, before the door swings open to reveal Samuel T. Wilson, looking forcibly nonplussed.

He looks – pretty good. A whole lot better than he did the last time Steve saw him. A whole lot better than Steve feels right now, truth be told. Wilson hasn’t lost much in the way of muscle mass, and other than a puckered scar at his hairline there’s no visible sign of the damage that was inflicted upon him last year in the fight against –

Steve swallows the rusty nails screwed into his throat. An unwelcome blush scorches his cheeks that Samuel T. Wilson smirks at – or maybe he blushes _because _of the smirk.

“Captain America,” Wilson says, arms folding tightly over his chest.

His left shoulder still moves a little more stiffly than his right.

“Major Wilson –”

“Jesus,” Wilson cries, shaking his head at the clouds. “How’d the recruiters ever turn you away when you were pulling a sorry face like that?”

The question, so impertinent and abrupt and unexpected as it is, tugs a surprised laugh from deep in Steve’s queasy belly.

“Get in,” Wilson says, beckoning him inside. Steve is quickly ushered to the kitchen, which looks much like it did the last time he was here. Even the paint’s the same eggshell tone as before. “Your buddy Stark sure he does know how to fork out for hush money,” he adds in response to Steve’s dumbfounded stare.

Guilt squirms in Steve’s insides.

“It wasn’t –”

“Yeah, yeah, pipe down,” Wilson retorts, waving a dismissive hand at Steve as he fiddles with the coffee machine. “Gift. Apology. Bribe. Whatever you want to call it, there sure was a _lot_ of it. Upgraded my thermostat and TV set while he was at it, so you won’t hear no complaints from me. I’ve played enough Mario Kart to keep up with my nephews, so at least they’re happy.”

He pours the coffees quickly, not asking Steve how he takes it – seems to remember, all the same, from months ago. Attentive, painfully kind.

Steve accepts the mug with both hands, pleased by the delaying distraction, trying not to shift his weight on the lightwood chair as Wilson joins him at the table. Wilson keeps his body language a little closed, but he’s more relaxed as he traces the handle of his own cup, eyes twinkling with laughter and finally making eye contact with Steve to say:

“So, is this where you apologise for accusing me of working for HYDRA?”

And just like that, it’s out there. The venom of the mistake that started that downward slope of a day.

Steve grimaces at his swirling coffee.

“I am so sorry, Major Wils –”

“Please, none of that. It’s still Sam.” He says it brusquely, the discomfort of forced reluctance evident in his jaw and eyebrows. He’s already forgotten his coffee, choosing instead to sit back in his chair and return his hands to his upper arms.

“Sam, I am sorry,” Steve says, sincerely, sorely.

It’s true. He’s sorry for a lot of things these days, but this is a noticeably brutal obstacle in the path to some measure of guilt alleviation.

“We had incomplete intel. We made some rapid assumptions out of desperation and you got caught in the crossfire. You’re a good man. A better man than most. You deserved our trust and we failed you. We’re – _I _am sorry.”

The rest gets stoppered up in his throat.

Sam’s eyes are narrowed, his expression thoughtful. He’s handsome, and his presence is soothing, even now. Steve is reminded all over again of that first VA meeting, last summer. Laughter over matcha lattes and other hipster fads. They could have been good friends – were starting to be good friends. Until…

“OK,” Sam replies after a lengthy pause.

Hope flickers, candlewick thin, in Steve’s chest.

“OK?”

Sam’s smirk slides back over his face, softening his narrowed gaze into something more amused than suspicious.

“I believe you. Apology accepted. You made a tough call, and it was the wrong one. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

A grin of his own twitches across Steve’s face.

“Thoroughly,” he promises with a twinge of mingled anguish and delight. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you in the hospital. First it didn’t seem like a good idea, then after…”

Sam’s already wafting a hand through the air, batting Steve’s second apology away like a particularly irritating fly.

“Man, if I’d woken up and seen your pasty white ass in my hospital room, I’d have probably kicked it. I appreciate you waiting. Especially when I know you needed this a hell of a lot sooner.”

At his words, Steve frowns, feeling wrongfooted by the uncertainty of what Sam’s getting at. He takes a fortifying gulp of coffee.

“What do you mean? Needed what exactly?”

Sam actually rolls his eyes at this, an open-mouthed smile revealing his tongue jammed playfully against a prominent gap in his teeth. A chuckle bubbles out of his throat.

“My debrief of the fight at the HYDRA base.”

The words are so dryly spoken, they scrape over Steve like sandpaper, chafing him. He does his utmost not to squirm where he sits, and barely manages to succeed. He can’t help the guilty downturn of his eyes though.

“You testified you didn’t remember,” he says softly.

“And I _lied,” _Sam retorts, the words arched and angular in his mouth. “Just like you all wanted me to. _That, _Captain Rogers, is what you should be apologising for. You made a liar out of me.”

The judgement sticks faithfully to Steve’s skin, tattooed onto his insides.

_You made a liar out of me._

An honourable man, an honourable soldier, an honourable _person. _And it doesn’t matter that Steve wasn’t the person to ask him to lie. It doesn’t matter that by the time whoever did ask – Maria, maybe, of Fury or even Nat – Steve was in a hospital bed of his own while his smashed skull knitted itself whole again.

The point is, Major Samuel T. Wilson lied to his country, and he did it for Steve and Steve’s friends.

Steve places the coffee cup down on the table, suddenly so queasy he’s worried the gulps he’s managed are going to come back up. The thunk of porcelain on wood is horribly loud, the sounds of the world dialled up to eleven by Sam’s words.

_You made a liar out of me._

Steve swallows the air cutting up his mouth.

_I’m sorry, _he should say, but what comes out instead: “Thank you, Sam.”

To his horror, Steve feels his eyes sting with gratitude. He chokes on the genuine relief of it, and on the surprise that thunders in his ears when Sam smiles, actually smiles, and replies: “You’re welcome, Steve.”

The brittle sunlight streaming through the windows, so stifling only moments ago, feels all of a sudden like an overspill of early spring pouring inside the house. Steve nearly laughs under Sam’s sharp and cheerful gaze. He feels, if not yet wholly forgiven, at least more even-keeled. The absolution is small, the weight of a single continent lifted from Atlas’ shoulders.

Sam picks up his coffee to drink. Steve nudges at his own idly. Before he can speak, Sam gets there first.

“I didn’t see their faces, if that’s what you want. They were both masked.”

Steve nods morosely, and realises with a burn of anxiety that maybe nobody _told _Sam. Maybe he doesn’t know –

“Bucky Barnes, though, huh?”

Sam doesn’t shy from his name, not the way others do. Maybe it’s because he’s removed enough from the reality of it, or maybe it’s because Sam is a VA Counsellor and he tackles impossibly tough subjects with semi-willing participants every day.

Either way, it pierces a lightning bolt through Steve, those three malignant syllables.

There is a harsh, fluorescent second as he remembers: his steel eyes, his metal hands, his flat mouth, his voice his gun his shoulders his throat his _voice –_

“Hey, Steve, you with me, man?”

Sam’s fingers are lightly resting on his pulse. He’s searching Steve’s face intently, frowning at whatever it is he finds there.

“Yeah,” Steve lies, thick and fake and Sam actually snorts at him.

“No, you’re not. I’m sorry. Must be tough as hell.”

There is a brief, painful wrench of a memory – Sam, distant yet present, another man’s absence like a phantom, _Riley, my wingman _– and Steve wants to beg for forgiveness all over again. He doesn’t.

“Stark told me he was in the wind. That still true?”

Tony, of course. Of course it was him. Steve can’t blame him; maybe even feels a tad grateful. He nods, a jerky movement of a stiff neck.

“What about the other one?”

Jesus. Steve bows his head under the weight.

How does he explain it? That certain uncertainty. The glancing blow of metal wings slashing through the hangar. Natasha Romanoff’s bloodless cheeks and colourless eyes as she sits on the body of a jet and says: _I thought I’d recognise him. I thought I’d always know. But I don’t. I don’t know if it’s him._

The raw, ragged look on her face the last time Steve saw her.

Sam’s staring worriedly at him, waiting patiently for a response he more than deserves.

“We don’t know,” Steve replies truthfully. “In the second attack, on SHIELD Headquarters, he wasn’t there. It was just B – the – the Soldier. Bucky. He might be dead. Or they might be together. I guess we were – I – I was hoping you might…”

Steve lets the incomplete question fizzle like the scent of their cooling coffee between them. Sam’s mouth twists at the corners. He’s upset, perhaps frustrated. Doesn’t need to verbalise it, but he doesn’t anyway. An honourable man. A good soldier. A good person.

“I never got a look at his face. He was fast. Strong. Sort of – light, I guess.”

“Light?” Steve asks, thrown off. That’s an unexpected once.

Sam nods.

“Those wings? They’re heavy, man. And when I grabbed hold of him, he barely weighed more than the metal was worth.”

“And you didn’t get any glimpse of him? No markers?”

Sam purses his lips, frustrated. Steve nearly takes it back. Then.

“Nah, man. Except.”

When he pauses, his expression turns doubtful. Steve gestures for him to continue, hungry for any scrap, however meagre a meal of hope it might be.

“He had a tattoo on the back of his neck.”

Steve’s eyebrows rise.

“A tattoo?”

“Yeah. It was a word. _Stymphalian.”_

For a moment, Steve’s caught in an urge to ask Sam to spell it out. Sam must see some of his confusion in his face because he lets out an unnerved chuckle of solidarity.

“I had no idea either. Had to look it up.”

“What does it mean?”

The crease in Sam’s brow deepens. He looks sad.

“They’re birds, outta the Greek myths. Poisonous. They’ve got huge wings made of bronze.”

Some jokes, Steve thinks through the nausea, weren’t written to be laughed at.

“Whoever he is, your Barnes cares about him.”

It’s a jolt, a splintered fish hook in his guts, double-edged. First, the truth of it: _Your Barnes. _He is, he _is, _and _was, _and will be, couldn’t not. Then following it, the assumption. _Cares about him._

“What makes you say that?” Steve asks.

Sam’s thumb has found his hairline, the puckered scar where his skull was cracked open.

“That Falcon – that Stymphalian? Whoever he is? Fighting him. It was like fighting a video game or something. He was so – _detached.”_

Steve nods uncomfortably, knows exactly, knows intimately, what he’s talking about. There’s something infinitely more frightening about an opponent in a mask. An opponent who doesn’t even make a _sound _as they fight.

Sam lets out a shaky sigh as he continues his recollection.

“But once I took him down, and your – the Soldier came after me? He ripped my wings clean off, Steve. It wasn’t methodical. It wasn’t detached. It was revenge. It was _rage. _He was angry at me, for hurting his partner.”

Steve’s tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth. He feels scooped out, a hollow doll of blood and bones. What is he supposed to do with that? Be pleased, or relieved, or anxious? Is he supposed to be glad at the idea Bucky has a friend, and ally, has even the capacity for one?

Or should it worry him more, that Bucky’s vulnerable, that he’s not only got himself to worry about?

They don’t even know for sure if the other Falcon survived. He crashed pretty hard when Sam took him down, and then later, at the Triskelion…

“That’s all I really got, man. M’sorry.”

“No, I mean, _thank you,” _Steve says forcefully. “Sam, _thank you. _You don’t owe us anything. I know that. But –”

“Damn right I don’t, Rogers, but why don’t you go ahead and make me that offer you’re thinking of anyways?”

Sam’s smirking again as he says it, and it isn’t mirthless and cold like before. It’s – keen. Bright. Eager. Brilliant.

Steve grins.

“You sure, Sam?”

“Ask me, Captain America.”

It stings a little, but that’s OK. Steve can take it, and if it brings him closer to this man’s forgiveness, he’ll take it gratefully and with a smile on his face.

“Would you like to help us wipe the last of HYDRA off the map, Sam?”

Sam beams at him. Laughs, even, as he shakes his head, looking disbelieving and thrilled.

“You know what, Cap? I really think I would. I think I’d like that a whole lot.”

Steve holds out his hand to shake, which Sam does firmly.

“Still got your suit?”

“Always, Cap.”

“Got any plans for the rest of the day?”

At this, Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, clearly not expecting to be called up for duty quite so soon.

“Nothing to speak of,” he says cautiously.

Steve nods, pleased.

“Want to go find a hipster coffeehouse to complain about? Because, Major Wilson, as someone who lived through rationing, I can safely tell you that your coffee tastes like it comes from the forties.”

Sam laughs head, head back, offended and delighted.

“OK, laugh it up, big guy. Should’a got Stark to rig me up a new machine while he was having my house fixed.”

Steve doesn’t point out Tony would probably have done a whole lot more, if he’d thought he’d get away with it. He’s got a healthy fondness for the air force over other military services. Colonel Rhodes’ influence, no doubt.

He stands up, and so does Sam, and for a brief second Steven has to wrestle down the urge to actually hug him. This miracle of a man, who is _good. _Better, in fact, than he seems to realise.

**a dream**

_“Wake up,” a voice says, and he does._

_A woman’s voice; raw silk, cotton and honey._

_He wakes to her body pressed against his. They are both naked, under a thin sheet. Her softest curves, moulded to the lines of his ribs, his hips, his legs. She’s shorter than him. Her toes hook icily around his ankle, her crown brushes his chin. Her eyes are pale and green, like spring in April, before the lambing season._

_He cards his fingers through her hair, perturbed by the colour: peroxide yellow. That isn’t right._

_“Bad dream,” she tells him, but she isn’t talking about herself._

_“I don’t remember,” he replies._

_He rarely does. His dreams are secrets his mind keeps from him; a discourteous blessing. _

_She strokes the keyboard of his ribs, flicks his nipple idly and he exaggerates his shiver to make her smile._

_The bed is small. They make it work. They always make it work._

_She plays a concerto down his side and he drags his calloused fingers up the backs of her thighs._

_After a while, lying together in the dark, she tells him: “You said my name.”_

_He frowns, and tries to grasp it, fingers in a candle wick, extinguishing the flame instead of grabbing hold of it._

_“I don’t remember,” he repeats._

_She continues the concerto over his skin. He tucks his fingertips into the dimpled dip of her belly, the shallow trench of her spine. They lie awake, coasting the tide of consciousness together, until they are cast back into the ebb and flow of dreams. They don’t stir for hours._

**sioux falls, south dakota**

**hawk**

“Wake up,” a voice says, and he does.

Hawk opens his eyes, and finds his wrists arrested in Soldier’s grip – no, not Soldier. Barnes.

Maybe-Barnes.

Soldier has a name, now. If Hawk has another name, they haven’t found it yet. Hawk blinks, taking in the troubled lines of Barnes’ face. The turmoil in his eyes. When Hawk tugs away, Barnes releases his arms quickly, moving back. He’s wearing outside clothes. A large sweatshirt, gloves, cap, boots, jeans.

“Bad dream?” Barnes asks, as he strips away the details, dropping things on the table, the floor, the bed.

Barnes is naturally messy in ways Soldier wasn’t. He also tidies up, after, in ways Soldier didn’t.

The questioning tilt of Barnes’ voice is wrong – Hawk doesn’t know. It wasn’t a good dream or a bad dream. It was just a dream. He swings his legs off the bed, scowling when one of his wings doesn’t fold quickly enough, catching another sheet that rips. He huffs impatiently, while Barnes’ mouth twitches in a complacent smile.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says for the twentieth time.

He’s gotten used to covers and furniture with rips and dents by now. For all their dexterity, the wings can be cumbersome.

Hawk swallows back his apology, rubbing his fingers through his hair, his fingertips catching on the metal plates in his head. His hair has grown enough to mostly cover them, now. They are secret parts of him, unlike the wings, which are monstrously unavoidable.

Barnes pulls out a carton of milk from a blue plastic bag, as well as a jar of instant coffee, a punnet of nectarines and a box of granola bars. One of the bars, he tosses for Hawk to catch, unwrapping one for himself, too.

Hawk eats methodically, barely tasting it. His free hand plays with a thin lock of hair around his ear, remembering the silky hair of the woman that lay beside him in his dream. The wrongness in his gut he felt, seeing the colour of it.

“I keep dreaming about a woman,” he says, slowly, measuring Barnes’ reaction cautiously.

He knows Barnes is having dreams, too. He doesn’t know if they’re the same dreams, though.

Barnes folds the wrapper carefully around his granola bar, placing it on the table and folding his arms, to give Hawk his undivided attention. He does that a lot. Removes himself from all possible distractions whenever Hawk speaks, as if he expects Hawk to say something important.

“I think she has red hair,” Hawk continues, trying to maintain some semblance of her face in his mind. “Green eyes?”

It’s hard. He barely knows his own face, most days. The only face he’s sure he could spot in any crowd is Barnes’.

Barnes cocks his head, his thoughts written vulnerably on his face.

“Halford?” he asks after a moment.

Hawk shakes his head violently.

“Not her,” he says hastily.

He doesn’t like talking about Halford. He doesn’t like thinking about Halford. Those long, agonising hours chained to her table, when her command alone wasn’t enough to keep him from writhing; afraid, sweating, shivering, waiting for Barnes, for _Soldier, _to come back. Wondering, terrified, if he’d ever come back.

The searing smell of metal, welded into his skin.

Lost in the memory, Hawk’s breath catches inside some invisible cage in his chest, refusing to come back out again.

Barnes crouches in front of him, his knees landing silently on the floor as his hands pull Hawk’s face up, to better see him. It’s easier, controlling his lungs, when Barnes is this close. The stubble on his jaw is almost a beard again already. Hawk doesn’t remember ever shaving, or watching Barnes shave, until they came here.

The metal thumb of Barnes’ left hand digs deep, painfully, into Hawk’s cheekbone. He smiles reassuringly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Hawk promises.

When he tries to move, Barnes won’t let him budge.

“I think I know the woman you’re talking about,” he says. Hawk pushes his face into Barnes’ grip; his cool, feverish hands. “We fought her.”

Hawk swallows back the denial – Barnes doesn’t lie, wouldn’t lie. It’s one of their promises, their most important rules.

No more lies.

“I don’t remember,” he says truthfully, and the echo of his own voice in his dream bounces back to him.

He tries to cling to any further details of his dream, his lungs contracting again, and Barnes give him a shake.

“Hey, hey, look a’me,” he says, and when worry bleeds into his voice, it brings with it a trace of another voice. A softer one, that creases youngness into his face, and sounds like the kids from a neighbourhood Hawk has forgotten. “You’re OK,” Barnes tells him, a request and a command. “We’re OK.”

Hawk takes Barnes’ hands, holding them to his cold cheeks, and its only when Barnes pushes their foreheads tightly together that he feels like he can take a full, uninhibited breath.

“We’re OK,” Hawk repeats back, shakily, matching Barnes’ smile.

“Tha’s good,” Barnes says, eventually, pulling away to shove another granola bar into his hand. “Because I found us something.”

Hawk raises his eyebrows, feeling a spark of excitement. Up to now, _found us something _has meant a vast array of things.

It’s a phrase that meant a bar of chocolate so rich and dark, they could only eat bitter splinters of it at a time, letting each sliver melt slowly on their tongues and feeling wealthy with their appetites. It’s meant a little electric heater, abandoned in a dumpster and only in need of a tweak of hinges to crank it back up to workable again. It’s meant a weather beaten book entitled _REAL HEROES: FEATS OF THE 20TH CENTURY; _a paperback full of anecdotes dating from 1900 to 1999, a chapter for every year, and in the 1944 section, from pages 82-84, there included a photograph of seven grimy, underfed men, amongst whom was a man wearing Barnes’ face.

It’s a phrase for tuna for the cat outside, or a jar of salve for Hawk’s scarred back, or a soothing box of flowery tea that helped take the sting off their bad dreams.

Barnes cracks a real grin this time, going back to his granola bar. He nods at Hawk, prompting him to get eating, and it’s only once Hawk’s mouth is full of crumbly oats and sugary cranberries that he explains: “There’s a mechanic’s, less than a klick east. Easy security, left overnight. They’ve got tools.”

This isn’t quite what Hawk expected, and he almost asks, except – he sees Barnes’ eyes dart to the hulking wings behind his shoulders. Even hunching them, they feel bulky and imposing around Hawk’s frame.

“You think?” he asks sombrely.

Barnes nods, looking so sure of himself Hawk can only trust him.

“I watched Kapanen. And I saw what Halford was doing. If we can undo the hinges, they’ll come off again.”

Hawk can’t stop the flinch that evokes, leaning back a little, listening to the wheezing sigh of the wings taking his weight. He’s hated being so inhibited by the wings; they weren’t supposed to be permanent, not like Soldier’s arm, not like his metal skull plates. They were _supposed _to come off – only, the last time they came off, high in the air, with that _other _hawk slashing at the hinges…

Hawk doesn’t remember most of it. Just the rush of wind and panic in his ears. The man’s voice, swearing loudly. His neck jolted back, the excruciating whiplash of tumbling through the air as he realised he was falling and his wings were powerless to sustain him anymore…

Barnes’ hand cups his chin, briefly.

“Come back,” he whispers, and Hawk smiles at him.

“We’re OK,” he says. Barnes nods, looking strange, and proud.

“We’re OK,” Barnes agrees. “We’ll fix the wings. Then we can go.”

Hawk takes a deep breath through the last mouthful of granola bar. He can taste the fresh air already.

**fortress, sokovia**

**scarlet witch**

The tests are easy. She could do them in her sleep.

She does, sometimes. Dreams in lines and shades and shapes, dreams in the voices of others, their thoughts, their hearts, their minds. They set their parameters and she matches them every time.

_Scarlatina, _they call her behind her back, which they don’t realise is to her face, too. A fever dream.

_Krasnaya ved’ma, _Pietro calls her. The Red Witch, like in the folk tales their grandfather would save for cold winters, when their parents were working and they could stay up late cooking paprikash together and sipping from a shared cup of malt milk.

Nobody calls her Wanda anymore.

She thinks it might be a hazard of this fortress. The very walls exorcise one’s sense of self, stone by stone, stealing the parts of her she once knew best. Like the Soldier with the snow blue eyes, and the Hawk with the cruel, sharp wings. She has hidden them in secret pockets of her mind. Their faces, seared like brands into the memories she won’t relinquish to Doctor List’s perusal.

She had felt them. Their worry, their confusion, their fear; all the most human parts of their souls buried in a hatch inside their minds. She’d brushed the faintest edges of their hidden selves; concealed by sparks of electricity, walls and walls of forgetting and fearing.

Wanda sits on the table, her legs swinging back and forth, her bare toes brushing the floor.

She stares at the man shackled to the chair across the room. He’s gagged, though it does nothing to muffle his whimpers. Tears and snot have collected in the tight ridge of material biting into his cheeks, stuffing his mouth open. His hands are bloody and white-knuckled. He has no fingernails left.

“Go on, my dear,” Dr List says behind her.

He still has an odd, soothing presence. A strange, warm aura that does not match his words, nor his actions.

The man across the room shakes his head drowsily, a wet choking sound in his throat.

They’ve already worked him over, just like all the others before. They don’t send them to her unless there’s no other choice; Doctor List insists they keep it that way.

Wanda doesn’t like it. She’d prefer, if she had to, that they send them in whole, unharmed, unbroken. These sobbing wreckages she is left to rifle through are embarrassing experiences. Painful, even. Too many sodden memories of mothers and wives cluttering up their scattered thoughts.

This man will be no different.

Wanda stretches out her hand and reaches towards the man, as her magic drifts in thin trails of red mist, extending and wrapping and rolling, colouring the man’s teary eyes. Staining the wet of his cheeks. Twisting into his ears and his mouth.

_Lewis, _she thinks first. Hears it in a woman’s voice, a – yes, his mother. Joanna. Her calamine lotion and floury hands and blue apron –

_Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease-please please _she hears next. His terror. His desperation. His clawing insistence, over and over and over.

_Soldat! _He shouted and the Soldier hesitated but barely, so barely, because the Soldier was wrong – _malfunctioning – _the Soldier’s eyes were – the Soldier’s eyes were full of _tears _–

_Where is he? _Soldier shouted and raised his metal fist and _Where is he? _Strucker shouted and –

The man, Lewis, screams, recoiling from her clutching magic.

Wanda draws back, snatching her hands into her abdomen and turning away to look at Doctor List. Breaths caught in her lungs, she strangles Lewis’ panic, which had bled back into her own heart, and she says:

“He doesn’t know. He was knocked unconscious. He didn’t see anything.”

Doctor List nods, gesturing to the guards at the door to clean up and beckoning for Wanda to follow him.

She does, the floor cold underfoot as she carries her shoes, choosing as usual to feel the thrumming hive of the fortress through her heels. She hasn’t mentioned to him, the way the world sifts through her body, now. The way life hums like dancing bees and emotions pierce through the air like sunlight through clouds.

They’re halfway down the corridor, heading towards her sleeping quarters, when she hears the gunshot.

One bullet, echoing through walls and skulls.

She doesn’t flinch.

_“Stop sleeping,” _a voice says, some hours later.

Wanda smiles, opening her eyes to look up at her twin brother, owlishly peering down at her in the dark.

He grins back, all mischief and affection, bopping her nose with his finger and crawling over to sit with his legs bent over her knees. She sits up, reaching to take his hand. He always run hot now, in contrast to his cool, quicksilver eyes.

Pietro squeezes her fingers.

“Anything new?” he asks.

Wanda shakes her head. They’ve kept their ears to the ground, ever since the upheaval of several months ago; when their TV access was revoked, their outdoor excursions cut, and their testing increased exponentially. It’s been in their best interests for Wanda to somewhat conceal the extent of her powers. She’s pried more than a nugget of information out of unwitting guards this past half-year.

HYDRA, it seems, has been exposed to the world, like a nerve ending in a deep wound.

A man called Alexander Pierce is dead, along with many others.

Their prize Assets are in the wind.

The fox-tempered wolf, Doctor Halford, is missing.

Doctor List, however, and Baron von Strucker, remain relentless in their enthusiastic pursuit of knowledge and power. Blind to the changing of the world, they wake and sleep only for the glowing heart of that otherworldly spear. They see what they wish, and what they expect.

Meanwhile, Wanda Maximoff and her twin brother Pietro, wait patiently. They grow stronger every day.

“Where can we go?” she asks, as Pietro idly strokes her palm with his thumb.

It is her turn to doubt. They share the burden of their worries; carry the weight of each other’s fears as they have done their whole lives.

Pietro kisses her knuckles reassuringly.

“Wherever we like,” he reminds her. “With your tricks and my charm, how can anybody resist?”

Wanda lets herself laugh, though it is an old joke by now. Her tricks are all very good, but they will not shield them forever from those who would hunt them should they run. Pietro knocks her chin softly, in perfect imitation of their father.

“There is no hurry,” he says. “We are safe here. And if, one day, we are no longer safe, then we will leave.”

“I don’t trust them,” she whispers, her thoughts lingering on Lewis, his grasping memories of his mother, the _bang _of the bullet that killed him once his worthlessness was laid bare.

Pietro’s smile is sad.

“Only each other,” he promises.

Wanda nods, burrowing into his side, his heat a furnace to bask in.

“Only each other,” she repeats, comforted by the thought.

**avengers base, upper state new york**

**iron man**

“What do you think?” Tony asks, pushing the empty piles of mugs away to make room for the two fresh cups he’s carrying.

He sinks back into his couch, while Bruce peels off his glasses to rub at his splotchy eyes. His hair is significantly wilder than it was when he arrived…eleven coffees ago.

“I think, if Natasha couldn’t identify him as Barton, I don’t know how you’re expecting me to. I spent less than a day with him. And it wasn’t even _me, _mostly. It was the Other Guy.”

Tony doesn’t much like the way Bruce refers to Hulk. It’s awkward, evasive and capitalised like that. Tony’s been hoping Jolly Green will catch on. Or, if not, perhaps Smashy McSmashyFace. Sadly, Bruce has long mastered the art of deadpan dismissal so well he could put even Howard Stark to shame.

Bruce replaces his glasses, grabbing his coffee and gulping it.

He looks tired. They all do. Even Steve, who hasn’t even had the courtesy to call for over a week, running amok with the new guy, his best bud – _Falcon. _Well, maybe Thor’s doing OK. Tony wouldn’t know, because Thor hasn’t called either. It isn’t doing Tony’s abandonment issues any favours, having all his super-pals scattered to the wind like this. He’s been working on it with his therapist.

At least, Bruce has successfully nodded in appropriate interludes the few times Tony’s anxiety has spilled over into their conversations, and he’s only called himself _Not That Kind Of Doctor _twice.

Now, as they sit collapsed over the streams and streams of data JARVIS has extracted from Widow’s dead-drop HYDRA files, he just rubs his face some more and drinks his coffee.

Tony bits at his thumbnail, worrying at the cuticle with his teeth. It’s been a long day. Days? He’s not sure.

It’s been a long year, in any case. And they’re not even halfway through it yet.

“What are the _odds _it’s Barton, though?” he asks instead.

Bruce whistles through his teeth, swinging quarter circles back and forth in his slouching desk chair. His shrug isn’t encouraging in the slightest.

“I’m not much of a betting man anymore, Tony,” he replies with an uncomfortable fidget to match.

“What if I had a video?” Tony asks. Spits the words out before they can wire his jaw shut, like they have done every other time he’s tried to bring this up with someone who isn’t JARVIS, or Butterfingers.

“You showed me the fight footage already. It’s barely –”

“Not that video. Another one.”

He hides behind his thumbnail, feeling shy and cold all over. Barks the confession and wants to shrink at the way Bruce’s eyes widen dramatically.

“You have something else?” he murmurs, as if he daren’t speak the words too loud. “Have you – Jesus, Tony. If you’re withholding evidence –”

“Oh, come _on, _Bruce!” Tony snaps back, astounded and agitated, recoiling from the accusation so far he actually gets to his feet to step back. There’s a thin layer of blood on his thumbnail, which he licks away distractedly. “I’m not _withholding evidence. _I’m – I’m exercising caution with sensitive materials.”

Bruce’s eyebrows rise high on his creased forehead.

“Did you steal that line from Pepper?”

“Of _course _I did,” Tony scoffs. He paces back and forth behind the couch, scratching at the cut in his thumb. “But I can’t show them. Bruce, I – I _can’t _It’s. It’s not. It’s bad.”

The rest won’t come.

Trapped by the hard lump in his throat and the deep concern of Bruce’s face as he puts his coffee deliberately down.

“Worse than your parents being killed by Barnes?”

His tone doesn’t soften it. Not the damp creases of his eyes nor the forced gentility of his pose. Nothing softens it, never has, probably never will. He hasn’t mentioned it on _purpose, _it’s not the _point. _How does Bruce even know about that?

The answer, of course, presents itself immediately.

She’s never far from Tony’s thoughts.

“Pepper,” he says, defeated.

Bruce nods.

“It doesn’t matter,” Tony says, shrugging off Bruce’s worry like a blanket that’s suddenly much too warm.

“Tony, it does –”

“No, it _can't,” _Tony snarls through gritted teeth. He feels very naked out of his suits, these days. “It _can’t, _Bruce. Because they’re gone. They’re all gone. I _looked. _OK? Everyone involved in that – that _mission. _They’re dead, and or vanished. Which just leaves _Barnes. _And I – I _can’t _–”

Tony doesn’t finish the sentence. He lets it tail off, lets Bruce nod thoughtfully. Lets him slot his assumptions into the gaps, because Bruce, he has such high expectations of Tony, and Tony’s too deeply ashamed to reveal how low he’s stooped on this one.

Better to let Bruce believe the best of him. Let him think Tony means to say he _can’t blame Barnes._

But the truth – _oh, _the truth gnaws at him.

The truth is, Tony can’t _punish _Barnes, and it burns him harshly to think it. He knows he can’t. Rogers wouldn’t allow it. Hell, Tony’s conscience probably wouldn’t allow it, but the urge, it’s there all the same. A toxic, nasty urge. He wants to burn Barnes as hard, as harsh, as Tony burns, thinking about it.

The truth is, Tony’s mostly relieved Steve’s found a new best bud to jet set on hunting trips with, because if they ever do stumble across old Buckaroo Barncicle, Tony’s not sure how calm he’ll manage to stay.

Bruce watches patiently as Tony wrangles his own emotions back into a lockbox in his chest, nestled safely behind the arc reactor.

He waits until Tony’s seated again to say:

“So, the video?”

He sounds almost as reluctant as Tony feels.

“JARIS, unlock the bank body files,” he says.

_“Certainly, sir,” _JARVIS dutifully responds, and the screen they’ve been going over together reappears above their coffees, showing a hazy, paused image mid-stream.

Bruce frowns. Perhaps, in the blur of the screen, he can already make out the tilting shape of the Winter Soldier.

“What is this, Tony?” he asks, leaning closer, looking positively unnerved.

“This,” Tony explains distastefully. “Is the recorded body cam footage recovered from a suit with DNA matching one Brock Rumlow.”

“Recovered from where, and how, exactly?” Bruce asks, eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Tony offers him a tight smile of an explanation, which thankfully Bruce reads perfectly, because he promptly returns his undivided attention to the screen.

“Show us what you’ve got, J,” is all Tony says.

The film plays, as Tony digs his teeth into his thumb. All the better to hold in his loud, loud thoughts.

_There’s an open tube of some kind, damp with condensation. A cryogenic chamber._

_The Winter Soldier is on his knees, arms suspended in a pressure point lock by two guards; his face, his hair, his entire body, soaked as he shivers. His metal arm flexes and gleams. His right arm trembles, muscles in constant spasm; the blunt ends of his fingernails are smashed and bloody._

_Bloody fingerprints can be seen on the inside of the chamber door. Almost as if –_

_As if he’d woken up, clawing his way out of it._

_The Winter Soldier is staring straight ahead of him, at something that can’t be seen._

_His face is young, wet, twitching. His tongue nudges uselessly at his lips but every attempt as words is both slurred and met with a brutal twist of both arms that makes his whole body jerk reactively. A lock of his hair has stuck to his cheek, the strands caught in his eyelashes and he blinks determinedly, trying to dislodge it from his eye to no avail._

_Despite the shuddering vulnerable creature he portrays, there are still seven semi-automatic rifles trained on him where he kneels._

_A man stands to one side, flanked by two doctors and two more guards._

_Alexander Pierce._

_His face is hungry. Curious. Excited. There’s a raw power to him that requires no weapons and no muscle mass to exude. He is in charge of this and every room. He knows it. They all do._

_He watches as the Winter Soldier is hauled to his crumpled feet. One leg buckles sideways at an awful angle, and a cry of pain falls weakly out of the Soldier’s mouth._

_“Shit, it’s got a broken leg. I forgot,” one of the doctors says._

_Pierce grimaces, as the Soldier wriggles like a newborn and the guards reaffirm their grips on their guns._

_“How long until he’s at full capacity?” Pierce asks._

_The second doctor shrugs uselessly._

_“It can do the job while it’s still healing. After it’s wiper and prepped, we can give it an extra few shots to keep it going.”_

_“Very well,” Pierce says with a nod._

_The Soldier is dragged to a chair. A large chair, with manacle that lock his twisting limbs into place. The Soldier’s eyes are watching something that can’t be seen. He’s mouthing and choking, his eyes widening with fear._

_“Don’t,” he manages to sob, head tilting back._

_A number sits heady in his slurs. Then another. Three. Five._

_He accepts a bit between his teeth._

_“Five,” he bites around it._

_A brace fixes over his face. There’s the crackle of electricity. A surge of power._

_The scream comes from every part of him. His chest, his throat, his teeth. His shoulders, his hands, his hips, his ankles._

_The camera angle turns, just a little, to the right, and –_

“JARVIS, pause there,” Tony barks.

He glances over at Bruce. Bruce, whose hands are clenched into fists on top of his knees, fists with slightly swollen knuckles that are tinted a sickly colour.

“You OK, buddy?”

Bruce nods tightly, closing his eyes and bowing his head. HE takes several long breaths. With each one, some of the strain bleeds out of him. His knuckles shrink. His fists uncurl. When he opens his eyes, they are the same warm brown as always.

“No more,” Tony reassures him. “Just look at the picture.”

Bruce does, flinching as his eyes rake over the frozen, tormented shape of Bucky Barnes.

Tony can’t look. Can’t bring himself to.

He reaches over to enhance the other side of the screen with his fingers.

“Not him,” he corrects. The enlarged image of a glass panel reveals a reflection in it. _“Him.”_

The reflection is the shape of a man on his knees.

Like the Soldier, he’s half naked. Unlike the Soldier, two huge metallic wings sprout out of his back, high above his hunched shoulders. His hair is short; a goldish colour. His face is bare, staring at the chair, at Barnes. There’s a glisten to his cheeks that might be sweat, and might be tears falling from a pair of glassy grey-blue eyes.

Bruce makes a punched, swallowing sound.

“Barton,” he says, and he looks over at Tony, scandalised. “Tony, it’s. You –”

“I know,” Tony replies.

Bruce falls back into his seat, looking perplexed and exhausted.

“You’ve had this how long?”

Tony wrinkles his nose.

“Had it? Months. Watched it? Four weeks ago.”

“Oh Christ, Tony,” Bruce groans. His hands rub up under his glasses. “You _have _to show them. Show Natasha, at least.”

“To what end?” Tony asks, and the sparkler ignition of his anxiety alights all over again, as it does every time he so much as thinks about it, about any of this. “This is. What is this? We show them and then what? It gives them nothing.”

“Hope, Tony,” Bruce says in a choked, rough voice. “It’s hope. It offers hope.”

Tony would laugh in his face if he had the breath left in his lungs for it.

“Hope can be very, very cruel, Brucie. You know that. I know that.”

Bruce’s face drops. Long-suffering sympathy; denial and defeat and indefinite fear. He covers his eyes briefly with one hand.

“So, what do you want to do?” he asks wearily, instead of arguing or agreeing.

Tony swallows the gravel littering his throat, piercing through his voice box and scratching up all his words.

“I don’t know,” he confesses, and it hurts to say.

Must hurt to hear, judging by the twist of Bruce’s mouth.

He’s never liked those words. Not at all, never more so than right now.

**menoken, north dakota**

**hawk**

The remnants of the base crackle. Embers. Smoke.

Hawk breathes it in and coughs and grins and laughs and chokes and breathes it in again, and beside him, Barnes chuckles, shaking his head.

“Easy, cowboy,” he says, then frowns, like he’s not sure what he just said, or maybe why.

Hawk doesn’t like the frown, but he does like most of the things that prompt it. Words, and phrases, and gestures, and sounds. Things that are not _Soldier. _Things that are _Barnes._

It feels like a deeply embedded thorn of betrayal, the more and more of what Hawk likes about _Barnes, _and how much better they are than _Soldier. _He admired Soldier. He relied on Soldier. He trusted Soldier.

Except, Hawk _likes _Barnes. At least, he thinks he does. He's not sure what liking things, liking _people_, feels like.

The remains of the HYDRA base they’ve torn apart and set alight flicker and burst. Barnes tugs playfully at Hawk’s left wing, sending a ripple of energy through to his spine, tickling his nerve endings. It feels better, now, since Barnes fixed them. It feels like it used to. The searing, rhythm is back, and Hawk knows what to do with that.

“Come on,” Barnes says. “We got to go before they get here.”

Hawk doesn’t ask who _They _is.

_They _is all of them. It’s HYDRA. The handlers. Manera, and Rumlow, and Kapanen. They is Halford. They is the Captain and his other Hawk, it’s the woman with the red hair and the man with the gun and –

Hawk clutches Barnes’ hand, once, squeezing. He’s warm, and he’s safe.

When he smiles, he looks _happy_

“Race you back to camp,” Hawk says, before shoving Barnes’ shoulder and taking off with a whir of his wings into the sky.

“Oh you _asshole!” _Barnes shouts, full of laughter, and Hawk bellows back, up at the moon as he soars towards it, cold air splitting over his face like the splash of the ocean’s break.

He hears the wheeze of Barnes’ arm recalibrating, the stamp of his feet as he runs as fast as he can.

The night above them, smoke and stars, shines brighter than daylight, as they race back to the camp they left, sixteen miles north of the base.

One down. Countless more to go.


End file.
